Spirantexcitarent
by DistrictNineAndThreeQuarters
Summary: After the war, Fred Weasley is in a coma. Trying to put an end to George's despair, Hermione offers him a chance to bring Fred back. An ancient spell gives the two a trip into the mind of the ringleader of the prankster duo, enabling them to see his secrets, relive his memories, and perhaps revive him.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first multi-chap…so…let's see where this goes. I've written five chapters ahead, but after that, I just have to hope my muse doesn't quit on me. Wish me luck.

1- This is all written in Hermione's POV, unless of course I've stated otherwise.

2- The title will make sense later, I swear.

3- This fic is kind of angsty in places, but not terribly so, at least not in my opinion.

4- This chapter is somewhere between a chapter and a prologue.

I honestly cannot bear to kill off Fred Weasley. I can't do it. Can't can't can't can't won't. So I decided to put him in a coma for a bit, then get him out of said coma (eventually.) But I don't want to give *too* much away. I don't think I can anyways, because even I'm not sure where I'm going with this.

* * *

After the war, Fred Weasley is in a coma. Trying to put an end to George's despair, Hermione offers him a chance to bring Fred back. An ancient spell gives the two a trip into the mind of the ringleader of the prankster duo, enabling them to see his secrets, relive his memories, and perhaps revive him.

* * *

**Spirantexcitarent**

"Well…what now?" Ron asks. His voice shatters the fragile silence in the desecrated room. His eyes dart around, taking in the remains of the dormitory he slept in for six years of his life.

Ginny sighs heavily and lowers herself to the tattered crimson and gold rug spread over the floor. Numbly, she tangles her hands in her dirt-streaked hair and hides her tear-streaked face from view. The spacious room begins to fill with the sound of soft weeping.

"Bring him to St. Mungo's," I reply. My voice is flat and hollow, toneless as an answering machine.

"We need to Floo Charlie," Percy adds, exhaustion apparent in his voice. He sits at the head of one of the four-posters, rather far from the rest of us, and stares blankly into space. His empty, expressionless blue eyes are magnified by his scratched horn-rimmed glasses.

"I'll find Mum and Dad so we can all get the hell out of here," Ron says. He has the overwhelmed voice of someone who's seen far too much for one day, much less a lifetime. It's times like this when I have to remind myself that we're all just kids, too quickly broken from war. So young to be fighting so hard. Deciding that any more pacing might wear a hole right through the floor, I sit next to Ron and he leans his head on my shoulder.

The anxious quiet overtakes the dormitory once again. Our interactions are awkward, almost forced. There are an infinite number of things we'd rather be doing at this exact moment. Sleeping, for one. Eating, showering, crying. We're floating in a state of numb shock, crying more out of exhaustion that true grief. Human emotion will come later, after our broken bodies heal from the tolls of war. Celebration will come after that. This could take a while.

Harry inhales sharply, tucking his knees to his chest. Our eyes sweep the ruined room and I catch his overwhelmed emerald gaze. Silently, we agree that I'll have to be the one to say the words we've all been dancing around since we entered the room.

"We need to tell George," I murmur, focusing my eyes on the shredded rug and absentmindedly fiddling with Ron's shoelaces.

"Hermione-" Percy starts.

"We need to tell George," I repeat, forcing a tone of sternness into my quivering voice. I raise my head, meeting Percy's eyes with faked defiance.

"Do you know what that'll do to him?" Ron protests incredulously, standing up abruptly.

"Yes!" I shout back, leaping to my feet. "But Fred's alive-"

"He's in a coma," Ron says bluntly. He stops, sighing heavily and running a hand through his disheveled red hair. "Can't we just…wait for him to come out of it-"

"You've obviously been driven mad with grief because that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say, Ronald. Merlin knows how long that would take," I snap. "And besides, it's his twin we're talking about; he has a right to know."

"You're being completely irrational, mate. He'll find out sooner or later, and it's not right to try to keep him in the dark," Harry says gently, walking to Ron and placing a hand on his arm.

"They're right, you know," Percy chimes in. "Mum and Dad might not be able to tell him, Charlie doesn't know yet, I don't know if Bill does either…" he pauses, adjusts his damaged glasses. "Fred's not dead…just…comatose. We have to tell him."

The dusty air in the dormitory seems to still as Ron holds Percy's piercing authoritarian gaze for a long moment before giving just the slightest of nods. Something in the depths of his cerulean eyes seems to break and he turns his back to us, covering his face with his hands. His lanky, bloodied body wracks with silent sobs.

"Let's find Mum and Dad," Ginny says softly, resting a hand on Ron's trembling shoulder.

As though just becoming aware of himself, Ron lifts his head from his hands and follows his younger sister's quick strides as she leads us through the dwindling groups of people drifting about the corridors. The castle echoes with ragged shouts of joy and grief. Names of siblings, children, friends ring though the stagnant air like gunshots. Screams of happiness and shock intermingle. It's the dichotomy of celebration and sorrow that overwhelms me, paired with the magnitude of Harry's achievement and the unfathomable depth of our gratitude.

At yet, we know this is just the beginning. We know that when we return to our homes and carry on without the people we've lost, we'll experience the true impact of battle. You don't know what you have until you've lost it. I want to kick myself for all the times I've yelled at the twins for their destructive yet ingenious creations.

"Mum!" Ginny shouts as we reach the entrance to what's left of the Great Hall.

"Ginny!"

As though momentarily blind to the rest of us, Molly runs toward her only daughter, hugging her tightly before turning to Ron, Harry, and I. "You're okay, thank Merlin, you're okay," she gasps, pulling us into her arms.

"Percival? Percival Ignatius Weasley?" she asks disbelievingly as she releases us. She stares at her third son as though seeing him for the first time.

"Fred forgave me," he tells her in a cracked whisper. "I'm sorry-"

"I only hope George can find it in himself to do the same," she cuts him off. Harry's eyes widen slightly at the uncharacteristic coldness in the matriarch's voice. She doesn't speak another word to or about Percy.

"Where's George?" Harry asks cautiously.

Instantly, something flashes across Molly's light brown eyes. Something I've never seen in her before- pure, unbridled fear. Her voice drops several octaves. "On the Astronomy Tower. He wouldn't!" she adds hastily when Ginny looks absolutely petrified. "He wouldn't do that."

"Does he know yet?" Ron whispers.

"I think…on some deeper level, he knows something is amiss. He said he was going up to the Tower, and that we should tell Fred to meet him there, but…his voice kind of cracked on that last part…I think he thinks Fred is…Fred…"

"It's fine, Mum. We know you mean, you…you don't have to…" Ron says quickly.

Molly nods, squeezes her eyes shut. "Well, he's probably assumed…the worst…but he needs one of us to tell him what actually happened…it won't be that much easier, but it's a slightly better situation…he can't break the denial himself."

"Where's Fred, then?" Harry inquires.

"Luna and Bill brought him up to Ravenclaw Tower, since it's generally one of the calmest areas…they're keeping him in Luna's old dormitory until we all collect and…take him to St. Mungo's…Arthur's with him, too." She stops to inhale deeply, trying to stop sniffling.

"We tried to tell George the situation, but he insists Fred was probably…probably pranking us…I don't know who we could send that he'll actually believe…"

"Well, let's think about it," I sigh. "We can't send Percy, Harry…Harry's done enough for one day, he probably won't listen to Ron…it'd have to be either me or Ginny."

Ginny's eyes widen. "I…I can go, but I don't know if I'd do any better…"

"Why not?" Ron asks, frowning slightly.

"He'd probably accuse me of being in on a prank with Fred."

"Hermione…you've got the best shot. George wouldn't think you'd ever be in on a joke like this," Harry tells me.

I swallow the lump of apprehension working its way up my painfully constricted throat. "I guess that's the only way, then."

"I'm afraid so," Molly sighs. "You should go sooner rather than later. It's getting dark and the sooner we gather everyone, the better. I don't think anyone wants to stay here much longer."

I crane my head up toward the bewitched ceiling of the Great Hall. The sky has rapidly gone from a hazy, smoggy canvas of pastel blues, pinks, and greys to an endless expanse of suffocating black as dark as pitch. The brilliant stars and the sliver of a crescent moon are obscured by passing puffs of dark smoke from smouldering ruins and wreckage. Occasionally, red or green sparks are shot into the air, not in celebration but in order to indicate locations, to draw families back together. They remind me of the wonderous, over-the-top fireworks displays of Fred and George-

"I'll go now," I say decisively, forcibly cutting off my own thoughts.

"I have a stop to make. Someone to visit," Harry adds. "We'll all meet in Ravenclaw Tower, then?"

"Good luck," Ginny says to us, embracing us both. Molly and Ron follow suit.

Percy glances at me, unsure. I see horrible sadness in his eyes, heart-wrenching guilt. Molly and Ginny will barely look his direction, Ron is too angry to forgive him quite yet, and Harry seems hesitant to welcome Percy back after what he did. It's not that I've fully forgiven him, but I know that he wasn't the cause of Fred's…state…

"Walk with me?" I ask, offering my hand.

He nods, averting his eyes, and takes my hand gently. His grip is loose, and I feel a slick sheen of sweat on his palm.

"It wasn't your fault, you know," I tell him, my voice lowered as we pass a young woman leaning over the corpse of a boy.

"It should be me, Hermione. I was the one who left." His voice is low, deep, even. He keeps his eyes steadily downcast. "It would be far less upsetting for them if it was me."

"They'll forgive you, at their own paces. You're family. Family comes together in hard times. If Fred forgave you, I'm sure they will."

"Do you think he'll come out of it?"

"I hope so."

We halt suddenly before two bodies lying side by side. A tall, heavily scarred man with shocks of grey in his hair and patched, raggedy robes. Beside him is a younger woman with a heart-shaped face and, even in death, spiky, bubblegum pink hair.

"Goodbye, Professor Lupin," I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. Percy squeezes my hand, then relinquishes his grip almost altogether. "Goodbye, Tonks."

"Orchedious," he says, his wand aimed at the slight space between them. A beautiful wreath springs from the tips of his wand to the ground, much like the one I created for James and Lily's grave.

"I should hurry on," I say. He doesn't look up, just nods. "None of this is your fault, Percy."

He mumbles something unintelligible, then crouches by Professor Lupin's feet. I pat his shoulder before turning and jogging through the corridors, dodging people and trick steps in my haste.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Before anyone gets their hopes up, my updates won't usually be this fast. It's just that I wanted to make something at least slightly significant happen, since the last chapter was a bit boring. Any reviews, suggestions, or con crit would be fantastic; any flames will be used to burn copies of Twilight. No offense to any Twihards. If you're reading Harry Potter fanfics, then you're okay :D

Also, I apologise in advance for any spelling/grammar errors. Just point them out and I'll correct them. I don't have a beta...*hangs head and shuffles off with a look of shame*

* * *

The Astronomy Tower looms majestically over the castle's damaging façade. Gusts of chilly night air nip at my dirty skin as I meander through the wreckage littering the floor. I inhale deeply, steeling myself for whatever emotions will come my way. Smoke still lingers in the air, but the smell of blood and stench of death have faded significantly. For some of us, this tower was merely another source of academic misery. For others, like me, it served as a picturesque place of refuge. A beautiful plethora of stars shimmers lustrously in the black sky. I spot a stocky figure leaning over the edge of the tower, disheveled ginger hair slightly illuminated in the sliver of weak moonlight. Short, pained sounds of weeping pierce the air.

"George?" I call tentatively, cautiously tiptoeing around a pile of utterly destroyed telescopes.

"Who's there?" he asks loudly, whipping around and holding his wand up. His normally handsome face is splotchy and dirty, with tear tracks etching paths through the grime.

My heart seizes in my chest, knocking violently against my ribcage. I force myself not to pull my wand on him as he advances towards me, suspicion flickering in his eyes. Glass crunches beneath his heavy footsteps.

"George, it's me. Hermione,"

He slips his wand into the pocket of his magenta WWW robes, but the suspicion never fades from his gaze. "Hermione," he repeats softly, as though trying to put a face to the name.

"Yes." I hold out my hand. "The Battle's over, George. We've won."

"I know," he responds indifferently. His voice is flat and toneless.

"We're going home now."

As though afraid my touch might burn him, he carefully takes my hand. I feel the grit on our palms as he slowly threads his calloused fingers with mine.

"You can tell me, you know," he says abruptly as I lead him through the crunching debris and down the winding stairway. His voice is hopeless and hollow.

"Tell you what?" I ask, trying to find out exactly how much he's assumed about Fred.

George's dirtied face is a blank slate as he seems to have to force his words out. There's a sense of painstaking, determined control in his voice.

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"George-"

I wince as my back hits the hard stone wall behind me. Something was bruised, I know it. George's hands tighten like vices on my shoulders. Even through my jacket, I can feel his fingernails digging in.

"DON'T YOU LIE TO ME! DON'T YOU DARE LIE TO ME!" he shrieks. A glint of terrifying hysteria dances across his bloodshot eyes. "DON'T YOU DARE, HERMIONE!"

My breath catches in my throat. My voice sticks in my throat, but I can't bring myself to hex him. I have no choice but to brace myself and wait for this to pass, hope he won't do anything too reckless.

"IF THIS IS SOME TWISTED JOKE YOU'RE ALL IN ON-"

"There's no joke-"

"THIS IS MY TWIN WE'RE TALKING ABOUT!" he screeches, gripping my shoulders tighter.

"We're not-"

"HE'S DEAD, ISN'T HE?"

The stairwell fills with George's ragged breathing. In the darkness, the only things I can make out are the shine of his crazed eyes and the white glint of his teeth, bared in a vicious snarl I could've imagined on anyone but him.

"DON'T LIE-"

"George." His name rolls off my tongue in a firm whisper.

"Don't…" he starts again. His voice is breathy and much softer. The grip on my shoulders loosens slightly, but not enough for me to get off the wall without a struggle. I opt to stay still.

"Please, Hermione," he cries, more tears trickling down his face. "Please, you can't lie to me about this…"

"Let go, George. Please."

He releases me. "I-I'm sorry…I'm not in my right mind."

"It's alright."

We start down the stairs again. "It's okay, George. Fred is not dead."

He stops dead in his tracks, one foot hovering above a step. "But there's something wrong."

I take his hand gently. "He's in a coma."

"I…what-for how long?"

"I-I don't know, honestly."

I can see his eyes welling up with fresh tears. "But…there's…there's hope, right?"

"There's always hope, George."

We walk to Ravenclaw Tower in crushing silence.

* * *

_Bill's POV_

"Any way to get proper medical attention?" Harry asks as he uses one of Luna's school robes to wipe blood from the nasty wounds on Fred's chest.

I snort. "Madame Pomfrey's in the Great Hall, handling people in worse shape. He's too stable; she wouldn't see us yet. We've got to bring him to St. Mungo's."

"Healing charms?"

"With damage this bad, they won't help much," Dad replies wearily.

Harry sighs and pushes his glasses up. "Conjure some bandages, someone, please."

Luna snatches an odd, bright yellow sequined something-or-other from the ground and transfigures it into a roll of white bandages. "Essence of Dittany?" she suggests as she quickly charms her tangled, matted mess of blonde hair away from her face.

Harry shakes his head glumly. "I don't know where to get any right now. Hermione might have some, but she's a bit busy. Someone help me out here, please."

"Busy with what?" Luna inquires, arching a thin blonde eyebrow quizzically.

"She's telling George."

"Merlin and Godric have mercy on her soul," I mutter.

Harry starts to cover the gashes on Fred's chest and torso with the clean bandages. There are four major lacerations: one just under his belly button to his left hipbone, one stretching straight down his right side, one spanning from his sternum to just above his belly button, and another crisscrossing diagonally across the first one. It took us a while and quite a bit of applying pressure to stop the bleeding, but six blood-soaked articles of clothing later, we pretty much did it.

But Fred's lucky in one respect: the scars are on his torso and not his face.

"Are you going back to Shell Cottage?" Dad asks as he winds a thin layer of bandage around a gash on Fred's wrist.

"Fleur's in France for a couple more weeks, with her family. I'll stay at home and Floo to her in a few days."

"HOW THE BLOODY HELL SHOULD WE KNOW WHERE VANISHED OBJECTS GO?" a familiar voice screams furiously. "JUST LET US IN ALREADY!"

"WHAT KIND OF IDIOTIC QUESTION IS THAT ANYWAY? IS THERE EVEN AN ANSWER FOR IT?" a female voice shouts angrily.

"YOU'RE JUST A BLOODY DOOR KNOCKER! WHY DO YOU ASK THESE THINGS?" the male voice hollers.

"Aaand Ron and Ginny are here," Harry grins.

"They're interrogating your door knocker, Luna-" I start, failing at my attempt to stifle my laughter.

"I'll get them," she volunteers, rolling her silvery grey eyes. "Honestly, Ron could be brilliant if he wasn't so infested with Wrackspurts…"

"What are Wrackspurts?" Dad asks, frowning.

"Ron could be brilliant?" I ask, grinning when Dad shoots me a look of half-amusement, half-disapproval.

Harry shrugs, smiling, and goes back to cleaning blood from Fred's skin.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: A wild update appears! Highlight of your week, right? Of course, thank you very much. I was only planning to update once a week, but this is the best excuse I have for not doing my summer school homework. As always, reviews and con crit are greatly appreciated; flames will be used to incinerate the nearest copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. Not because it's smut, but because it makes all smut look bad. Also, thank you to anyone who reviewed, followed, or favourited this fic :) And of course, please point out any glaring errors; I have yet to get a beta.

* * *

"Hey, Luna," I greet the eccentric blonde waiting in front of Ravenclaw's eagle door knocker. Her daydreaming eyes rapidly drift back into focus, wide and grey like a rainy day.

"Hermione, George," she nods, leading us into a spacious white, blue, and bronze common room. I can't help but notice that her voice has lost its airy, dreamy quality, becoming lower and oddly pained. Her eyes, though still unfocused, seem gloomy and dreary. She radiates sadness rather than mysticism, so different from the Luna I knew before.

The Ravenclaw common room has probably taken the least amount of damage in the castle. It's basically untouched, with the exception of a few toppled stacks of texts and some other miscellaneous items scattered across the ground. We trudge up a spiral staircase, gripping the cold bronze banister, until we come to the door of a dormitory, decorated by a huge eagle. Luna opens the door a crack, leaning in. "They're here."

I glance at George, not wanting to pull him in before he's ready. Then again, how would one fully prepare for something like this? After a moment that seems like a year, he nods, taking my hand again as we enter the capacious, circular room. Fred is lying on a four-poster, stiller and quieter than I've ever seen him before or ever want to see him again. His chest rises and falls steadily, but nothing else so much as twitches. Dark blue blankets are drawn up over his body, though his stocky arms are resting on top of the covers, covered only by sparse bandages. His skin is marred with angry red scratches, and several bruises have formed on his freckled face, black and blue against paper white. I kneel by his hand, between Arthur and Harry, and place two fingers on his bloodied wrist. The faint thump of his pulse beneath his skin keeps me together.

Slowly, George approaches the bed. He extends an arm, as though trying to determine if the sight is an illusion. I can practically see the faint spark of hope grow then die within his eyes as he tries to decide whether his sights are real or just the part of some twisted nightmare. He lays a hand on Fred's chest, covering his sternum. "Fred?"

"George-" Bill starts gently. But he stops himself instantly, looking down, exhaling loudly, and squeezing his sapphire eyes shut like he's trying to will away something horrifying.

"Fred, wake up. This…this isn't funny, Fred," George pleads, his voice cracking. "I-you got me, alright? I don't…I don't like this prank, Fred!"

He nearly collapses to his knees, saved only by Ginny and Ron grabbing his arms and heaving him back up. His gaze sweeps over us, the nine people congregated around the bed of his comatose twin. "This…this…isn't a prank, is it? He really is…he…"

There's a collective moment of breath-holding. George slips his arms out of his siblings' grips and gently pries one of Fred's eyelids open, exposing a motionless sky blue eye. "Nothing?"

"I'm sorry, George," Luna whispers.

"We can't take him to St. Mungo's," George says, looking at Arthur.

"George, he needs to be in a hospital-" Arthur responds.

"No! There's no reason we can't keep him at home!" he argues. "There's nothing they're going to do there that we can't manage at home!"

"I…I think I'm with George on this one," Ron chimes in. "After all, he's Fred's twin; he knows what Fred would want."

"It's not the best idea-" Bill tries, voice firm and sure.

"NO!" George shouts, standing up and rounding on his oldest brother. "NO! I WON'T…I WON'T LET YOU TAKE HIM FROM ME!"

He lunges at Bill, nearly tripping over his untied shoelaces in his fury. I grab his wrists, using all my strength to restrain him, but he slips away easily. "George, get a hold of yourself!"

"YOU WON'T TAKE HIM AWAY! I WON'T LET YOU!"

"SIT!" Ginny shrieks. "NOW!"

George gives her a sneer worthy of Draco Malfoy, but grudgingly turns his back to Bill and sits on the side of the bed, angry and indignant.

"Fred's staying home," Molly announces decisively. "No arguments from anyone."

"Mum, it's not sa-" Bill starts.

"And that's final," Molly says sternly, annunciating each word and glaring daggers at Bill until he nods, jaw clenched in irritation.

"Thanks, Mum. I-I'm sorry, Bill. I truly don't know where that came from."

"It's alright, mate. No harm, no foul," Bill replies, the corners of his scarred mouth flickering upward.

"We ought to go home," Arthur sighs. "Luna, you can stay with us if you like. Pack some things."

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley," she smiles, heaving a small trunk from beneath Fred's sickbed and using her wand to summon several objects, shoving them away haphazardly.

Her trunk is heavily decorated. A bronze eagle, a Ravenclaw crest, a small photograph of Xenophilius. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

* * *

For reasons completely unbeknownst to the rest of us, George adamantly refuses to use Mobilicorpus to move Fred. Instead, he and Molly carry Fred's comatose form between them, George at his head and Molly at his feet. No one questions it.

"Well, Portkey System is closed by the Ministry," Arthur announces wearily. "The Floo Network is probably dangerously overloaded, brooms would take too long. But the wards are lifted, we can Apparate."

"I can Apparate Ron and Fred and George," Molly says.

"I'll take Bill, Ginny, and Harry," Arthur volunteers, waving them both over.

"Hermione, you take Luna and Percival," Molly directs to me.

There are nods all around as we gather in our little groups. This is the first time I've done Side-Along Apparation with people other than Ron and Harry. Percy takes my left hand and Luna grips my shoulder, which is still painfully sore from George's vice grip. We twist in mid-air, spinning and contorting as the oxygen is painfully compressed from our lungs. We collapse ungracefully in the centre of the living room, knocking over and nearly breaking several things. Ron, Harry, Bill, Ginny and Arthur arrive seconds after us, closely followed by Molly and George, carrying Fred bridal style.

Ignoring the rest of us, he crosses the living room and sets Fred down on the couch. After a long moment of silence, he painstakingly pulls himself away from his twin and looks around the room as though disoriented and unsure of how we all got into his house.

"Should I put some tea on?" Molly asks.

"We can take care of it ourselves. You ought to get some rest," Bill says kindly.

"Good night, then," Arthur yawns, following his wife up the stairs without so much as a backwards glance.

* * *

"There was a battle at Hogwarts," Percy explains, peering through the emerald inferno of Floo Powder and into the interior of a sparsely furnished tent.

"Percy?" Charlie asks, dumbfounded. He turns his attention from Ron to Percy.

At Bill's mention of Flooing Charlie, all of us had scrambled to the fireplace, practically wrestling over space and cramming into the swirling green flames. Charlie's tent at the Romanian dragon reserve had swum into view and a stocky, broadly muscular and very scarred and weathered redhead had nearly fainted at the sight of us, bruised and bloodied, with ruined clothes and soot-caked skin.

"Well, what the bloody hell happened?" he demands impatiently, turning away from Percy.

"We just told you, there was a battle at Hogwarts," Ron says.

"Harry killed Voldemort!" Ginny announces.

"Sweet Merlin's frilliest knickers," Charlie gasps.

Harry grins. "Technically, I didn't KILL him-"

"Screw technicalities, Harry! Voldemort's dead!" Ron shouts cheerfully.

Suddenly, Charlie looks unnaturally suspicious of us. His stormy blue eyes narrow to slits. "Is this some sort of prank?"

"No, Charlie, we're serious!" I assure him gleefully. "Voldemort's dead!"

"Is this one of the twins' jokes, I sw-where's Fred?"

There's a painful moment of dead silence as the excitement is practically sucked out of the air. George lets out a sad, bordering-on-pathetic whimper.

"WHERE'S FRED?"

"He's…Fred…" George tries, bursting into tears.

"He's in a coma," I finish quickly, voice barely above a whisper.

"Heads out of the fireplace, I'm coming home."

* * *

"You guys want to go to sleep?" Ron asks, gesturing to the clock that reads nearly two in the morning.

"I want Fred to wake up," George murmurs almost childishly, snatching a blanket from the arm of one of the couches and curling up in a worn armchair. "I want Fred."

"I know, George…" Ginny whispers. "Speaking of Fred, where should he stay?"

"In his bed," George says, as though the solution was obvious.

"Fair enough, but where are the rest of us staying?" I ask.

"Percy in his room, Bill and I in our old room, Harry and Ron in Ron's room, Ginny, Luna, and you in Ginny's room?" Charlie suggests.

"Luna in Ron's room, Harry in Ginny's," Bill corrects, wiggling his eyebrows at a slightly smirking Ginny.

"And me on the couch?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"You anywhere you want," Harry answers through a yawn.

My eyes drift to George, curled up in the aged leather armchair. A blanket is drawn tightly around his body. He stirs slightly, hands instinctively reaching toward the couch where Fred lies, inert.

"I need to stay with George," I decide. Already I feel the weight of his despair compressing me, but I can't bear the thought of George being left to weep through the night alone.

"Thank you, Hermione," Ron says, pulling me into his lanky arms. I smell smoke and blood on him, but I hold him tighter anyway.

"What, did you think I'd have you help him? You have the emotional range of a teaspoon," I whisper to him jokingly.

Grinning, he waves Luna up the staircase. "Good night, Hermione."

* * *

A/N: I know it wasn't a particularly eventful chapter. But on the bright side, another George Weasley grief-induced freak out! Fun fun fun, am I right? No? I know, but grief makes people angry and unreasonable. Don't blame the man; his twin's in a coma, so you'd better be nice to him! But it gets better.

I think I'm going to delve into the minds of some other characters next chapter. Briefly, though, because I don't want to bore anyone out of their skull.

Well, until next time- Keep Calm and Potter On!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Accio Chapter Four! I dare you to yell that at the top of your lungs and count the weird looks you get. That's an amusing game, by the way: Next time you're around a bunch of people, attempt a Summoning Charm or shout "Lumos" when you turn a light on or some other weird thing. (I can give you about a hundred ideas if you're suffering from Weirdness Block.) Count how many strange glances you can get in one day, then do it again the next day and try to beat your own record. Or compete with a friend, if you're lucky enough to have someone as weird as you.

Where was I? Oh, right!

**Chapter four starts right….here…**

* * *

"Are you awake?" I whisper into George's remaining ear.

He mumbles incoherently and turns his head to face me. Slowly, he pries open his bloodshot eyes. "Am now."

"Do you want to go to bed?"

He yawns widely and tosses his knitted blanket off himself. His hair is matted and tangled; his skin is still grimy and splattered with dried blood. He stands, stretching and shrugging off his magenta robes, which are so stained and torn I doubt even Molly could salvage them. Underneath, his shirt and jeans are more or less spotless.

"I dreamt about him, Hermione."

"Bad dreams? Nightmares? Or just…about him?" I wonder aloud, vanishing the robes.

"Just…about him."

"Help me," I request, lifting Fred's feet. George nods, grabbing Fred's limp shoulders. We manoeuvre him up two flights of stairs and lay him down on the orange sheets of his unmade bed. I cast a Scourgify charm, doing the best I can to magically clean the streaks of grime and blood from his hair and skin, as well as his trousers.

"Can you heal the wounds?" George asks, not hesitating as he unwinds what seems like metres of blood-stained white bandages. His lean torso is marred with four long lacerations.

"Godric…I didn't realise how bad it was…" I gasp, tilting my head and marveling at the damage. "There's a small handbag downstairs. Summon it for me, will you?"

I trace one of the gashes, following its trail from under his belly button around to his left hipbone. A thin layer of blood smears on the pad of my finger and I hastily pull my hand away, partially out of queasiness from the blood and partially out of guilt because I know it's probably not considered good manners to ogle someone when they're injured and comatose.

"What's in there that can help you with this?" George asks curiously, rattling the bag around and peering into it with a skeptical expression. I shake my head, trying to clear away my thoughts. I snatch the bag from his hands before he can desecrate my once-scrupulously organised belongings.

"This is the bag I took on the horcrux hunt. I used an Undetectable Extension Charm and managed to fit a bunch of useful stuff, which included a tent and…Accio Dittany…Essence of Dittany!" I announce, catching the tiny vile of green potion as it zooms up from the cluttered depths.

"Oookay, first off, horcrux hunt?"

"Merlin, have we got some stories to tell you." I shake the vile slightly, swirling the liquid around and examining it.

"And second, what are you about to slather on my twin?"

"The potion I saved Ron's life with when he Splinched away a hunk of his arm."

George raises a ginger eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Bloody idiot," he snorts.

"You don't know the half of it. Now shush; you wouldn't want me to mess this up." I uncork the potion and carefully trickle four drops of it over Fred's chest, coughing slightly as green smoke billows up to the ceiling. His skin stretches to close the wounds, leaving behind long grey scars.

"That's bloody amazing," George says, sputtering as he waves the smoke away.

"Isn't it?"

I drop the vile back into my handbag. "Can we duplicate your bed? I need something to sleep on and I'd prefer that over the floor."

"No problem. I'll take care of it, you get ready for bed."

* * *

I slip into the small bathroom, immediately discarding my raggedy clothing and starting a shower. For the first time since I was tortured, I'm so preoccupied with the task of getting clean that I don't even contemplate anything deeper. Nothing of the twins, of Voldemort's defeat, of the hideous "Mudblood" carved into my forearm. Nothing but the painful rumbling of my long-empty stomach and the filth caking my skin.

Steam rolls all around me, fogging up the mirror on the wall. The scalding water melts away the tension in my clenching muscles. I scrub away the coating of grime and blood. It's so thick, it's almost like I've shed a layer of skin when I'm finally clean. Grey water streams down the drain as I wash shampoo out of my frizzy mass of hair. I glare at the scar from Bellatrix with distaste and disgust, reminding myself to wear long sleeves as only Harry, Ron, Bill, and Luna know about it so far. I hate it, despise it beyond words, but I have to accept its presence. It's not going away, but it's a testament to my strength, and reminder of the dangers of prejudice. I still plan to hide it, but secretly, I offer a fleeting smile to my most severe battle scar.

Resentfully, I poke at my ribs. The horcrux hunt stole whatever body I had finally developed throughout my fifth and sixth years, leaving me with hollowed cheeks, a chest that might as well just be flat, and an embarrassingly bony frame. It's vain, but I feel I have the time to care a bit more about my appearance now that I can sleep without the threat of impending doom constantly hanging over my head.

And sleep I do, tangled up in layers of clashing magenta, orange, crimson, and gold blankets from George's duplicated bed. At his request, I had summoned the last drops of my Dreamless Sleep Potion from the abyss I call a handbag. It had come in handy the most when the horcrux hunt had turned into an impromptu camping trip. Indeed, Ron, Harry, and I had sometimes needed it to get any sleep at all. But eventually, we had resorted to night after night of restless watches and anxious, panicked research, so I had stashed a little bit.

George had stared at the final few drops of the potion almost reverently, like his dreams of Fred weren't really dreams but torturous, agonising nightmares, and the potion was the only thing that could lead him out of his own personal hell. He had downed it as fast as he could, slumping back and pulling the covers over himself. Within a minute, the room had filled with the rhythmic sound of his deep breathing.

* * *

**Ron's POV**

Luna and I sit on opposite sides of my cramped bedroom, me on my bed and her on a duplicated version of my bed. She looks almost Hermione-esque, with her hair wild and piled on top of her head, her legs crossed, and her face in her hands. Her mess of wavy white-blonde hair is skewered by her wand. Of course, we're both still dirty and bloody and bruised. But never mind that.

I lean back, resting my head against the wall and staring up at the ceiling. It's a boring, plain expanse of white. I never saw the point of decorating my ceiling, like the twins did to theirs. I think I was too lazy, but now I regret it. I study the flat plane of white for what feels like an hour, until I get the peculiar feeling of eyes boring into me. I look at Luna and she's finally raised her hand from her hands. Her eyes are fixed on me, grey like the drizzle of a gloomy spring morning.

"My mum always said the things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect," she says simply. Her words are enigmas yet to be unraveled, with a prophetic quality to them. Her voice is exhausted rather than airy. Her eyes look, for lack of a better word, dead. She looks hopeless and lifeless and defeated, not like Luna at all.

Without another word, she pulls the sheets over herself and turns away from me. I feel something sparking in my own body, something incredible and unstoppable, something reassuring and indestructible.

* * *

**Ginny's POV**

He follows me up the rickety staircases, into the tiny enclave of a bedroom. He shuts the door behind himself, leaning against my wall as I open my window a crack to cool the room down. For a moment, the silence makes me worry that he's about to crack. I turn to look at him, finding that I'm wrong; he's smiling, gazing at me with the same expression I constantly see Dad give Mum.

"It's been too long, Ginny," he murmurs. Suddenly he looks broken, despite his smile. I see seventeen years of abuse and neglect, stress, fear, and nobility, the way it's taken a toll on him. The painful hollowness in his eyes, empty pools of deep green, simultaneously bright but dull. He rubs the famous lightning bolt scar on his forehead, flattening his unruly black hair over it.

"I know," I say softly. What else can I possibly say? What else is there?

He crosses to the window with easy strides, wrapping his arms around me. Despite the noxious smell of death that clings to his tattered clothes, I find myself unable to let go of him, not after I was forced to before. I don't think I'll ever be able to let him go again. He leans in, meeting my lips chastely, only for a moment. For one wonderful moment, nothing else matters. Not my war hero friends, not my comatose brother, or his devastated twin. "I missed you," he whispers against my lips.

"I missed you, too."

I sense reluctance as he steps back from me. "Told you dating opportunities would be pretty scarce," he teases, grinning slightly.

"Can't blame a girl for worrying. Besides, we all thought you and Ron might've had something going," I joke, laughing when he shudders violently, pretending to retch.

"I wouldn't've cared if a million Rons were trying to snog me!" he proclaims dramatically. "I still would've come back for you!"

We double over with laughter. "Merlin's beard, you really are bad with girls, aren't you?"

"Good thing I'm the Chosen One!" he says happily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to wash the blood off myself and then see if Hermione has any Dreamless Sleep Potion."

"Dreamless Sleep Poti-"

His eyes flicker towards me again and I realise the empty look was never shaken. It's haunting, wondering what he's missing, what's been lost.

Innocence, of course.

* * *

A/N: I wanted to tackle some more of the other characters' POVs, but I decided against it. I don't want to add too much superfluous stuff, you know? Unfortunately, most of my attempts at angst morph into odd angst-humour, but I hope you enjoyed this, because there's more coming up!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: A bit of fluff, a bit of angst, and then the plot thickens! Or starts to, anyway.

Well, once again, I hope you enjoy this odd little fic of mine. Reviews/con crit= virtual hugs; flames= virtual roundhouse kick to the head. Or a real one, if I ever run into you IRL one day.

* * *

I wake to the sound of running water and, distantly, the saccharine aroma of maple syrup. My stomach growls loudly, but my muscles protest painfully when I attempt to sit up. I decide that, as a war heroine, I've earned the right to laze about in bed for a few extra minutes in the morning. Sunlight pours into the room through the wide window. Rays of light dance across Fred's body, which is motionless but for the steady rise and fall of his bare, scarred chest beneath his colourful comforter.

Last night, George and I transfigured our identical beds into one bunk in an attempt to save space in the rather cramped bedroom. From the top bunk, I can reach up and lay my palms flat against the ceiling. It's plastered with all sorts of mementos- old letters on crumbling parchment, Chocolate Frog cards, Gryffindor pendants, photos of family and friends. I see a photograph of the Gryffindor Quidditch team in which every member is pulling some ridiculous face except Oliver Wood, who's half-smiling, half-scowling at his team.

My other favourites of the ones I've seen so far are a black and white picture of a younger Molly and Arthur, cradling a baby that, judging by their youthful looks, I guess is Bill, and a photograph of me, standing alone in a corner of the Great Hall in my periwinkle Yule Ball robes, with a fond sort of smile on my face, like I'm smiling only to myself, reliving a memory that's meant just for me. I can't for the life of me recall anyone, much less the twins, snapping that photograph.

I hear the bathroom door click open and I automatically feign sleep. Through one halfway open eye, I watch George emerge with a turquoise towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is a few shades darker and plastered to his face with water. His body is covered with large, black and purple bruises and angry red scratches. He retrieves a pile of clothes from a drawer of his dresser and slips back into the bathroom.

A written copy of the Howler Molly sent Ron in second year, a photograph of Tonks with a duck's bill instead of a nose, a picture of a gaunt but devilishly grinning Sirius Black leaning against the curtains draped over the portrait of the spiteful and insufferable Wallburga Black. George slips back into the bedroom, fully clothed.

A crumbling letter in blue ink, from their Uncle Gideon. A black and white photograph of Percy and Charlie in front of Egyptian pyramids, with fezzes clashing with their ginger hair. "Hermione…Hermiiiioneee…" he sings.

A photograph of Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson, both striking comically Herculean poses in front of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. "Alright, alright," I groan, nearly falling flat on my face in my pathetic attempt to not do exactly that as I climb down the ladder.

"I smell pancakes. How long has it been since you've eaten?"

"Too long."

"I can tell."

* * *

It hasn't hit him yet. Observing everyone, I can tell it hasn't really hit anyone yet. The reaction is strange, when someone's in a coma. On one hand, I'm just so grateful that Fred's not dead. But on the other hand, it's almost like he is. There's slightly more hope, but also slightly more uncertainty. Some of us seem to cling to the miniscule shred of hope, while others seem to flat-out reject it, out of fear it will only lead to more pain when it disappoints. I try to remain neutral, keep myself detached from the emotion. I'm not ready for it yet.

There's an odd feeling of cluelessness, like we don't know what to do with ourselves without something to fear, to flee from. There will be an uncomfortable gap of time while we all wait for the emotions to come, then we'll struggle to cope with them when they do. We're in the in-between, the lengthy period stretching to build a bridge between action and reaction. Everything's surreal, like the fading memories of a once-vivid dream, or the unfortunate tale of someone else's tragedy, read in the newspaper or passed from a friend of a friend of a friend.

"Morning, Hermione!" Charlie greets me, handing me a plate stacked with what appears to be a pancake replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

"You cook?"

"Mock me and I won't serve you anything. Now eat, before you starve to death."

I take a seat at the long dining room table, between Ginny and Ron. Ginny seems half asleep, unusually glum and subdued. Ron is the opposite, talking animatedly to Harry and Bill.

"How's Fred?" Charlie asks quietly, taking the seat across from me.

"No changes," I inform him, lowering my voice as George enters the room, seating himself at the head of the table.

"At least he's alive. It could've been much worse."

"True. Where's Percy?"

"Hasn't left his room," Charlie replies, his voice falling flat, sounding almost…annoyed.

"You too, huh?"

"He left, Hermione. He just…left and betrayed all of us, nearly dismantled Dad's reputation," Charlie continues, obviously frustrated. He looks agitated, like he's unable to find the words to properly express his anger.

"The pancakes are delicious," I interrupt, trying to cut off any building tirades. He smiles, then sighs, and finally groans loudly, tossing his head back and sliding his hands down his face.

I spend the next hour and a half discussing Romania and dragons with Charlie, Hogwarts under the Carrows' regime with Ginny and Luna, and Gringotts with Bill. No one utters a syllable about Percy.

* * *

"Sometimes I think the man in the mirror is you, Fred," I hear George whisper.

He's been secluded in his bedroom for ages, not speaking a word to anyone and making constant and obviously pointless attempts to rouse Fred. I consider the fact that I distracted him from his reclusion long enough to take his fourth shower in nearly two weeks a personal victory. For the sixth time this week, he's sequestered himself in his bathroom. He's been muttering to himself for nearly two hours. He Colloportus'd the door so powerfully that my attempts to unlock it both manually and magically looked absolutely pathetic. All I've been able to do is sit and wait for him to come out.

So I sat on the floor, leaning against the bathroom door with my ear practically pressed to it. I managed to take down his Silencing Charm. I still can't open the door, but at least I can hear that he's still alive, that he hasn't tried anything…

The first hour and a half of overhearing him, his painful, morose way of coping, was in itself a twisted form of psychological torture. From my place by the bathroom door, I had a perfect yet unfortunate view of Fred's form, stable but unresponsive, vegetative. George's anguished words floated through the uncharmed walls, swirling around my head. It reached a point where I could feel the physical pain that comes with sorrow, the nauseating sensation of a knotting stomach, the dull ache throbbing in my temples from hours of sobbing in tandem with George, the sharp then dull feeling that mimicked a knife ripping through my heart, sending pangs of agonised grief coursing through my veins. I could hear George's sharp screams ringing like gunshots and I had to stifle my own, covering my mouth with my hands until I felt I might pass out.

"But then I realise that the stranger I see could never be you…You've always been the happier one, so much stronger than me…I can't bear it much longer, Fred…I can't even talk without hearing your voice…" His words trail off into a helpless, heartbroken weeping.

Painstakingly, I push myself to my feet, wiping my soaked face off with my sleeve. I start panicking then, realising I have to get him out somehow, now that he's getting too close to the edge, like he might finally snap.

"George!" I yell, banging on the bathroom door.

No response.

"George Fabian Weasley!" I shriek, immediately regretting yelling at the poor man. But he's not going to listen to me unless I force him to. Tough love, I suppose.

"Don't get mad at me! Can't you see I'm mourning?" he screeches back furiously.

"George!"

The bathroom door flings open and there's George, standing in front of the sink, breathing laboured, hair sticking up at bizarre angles. Skin pallid, eyes bloodshot, filled with rage and sorrow and framed by dark rings. Face splotchy and tear-streaked, clothes hanging loosely on his thinning figure. I can barely process the image, because the idea of a devastated George Weasley makes so little sense.

"Sit down," I insist, gesturing toward his unkempt bottom bunk.

"Don't tell me what to do."

"He's not dead, you know-"

"Hermione-"

"He's not. He's in a coma, but-"

"Granger-"

"You don't have to mourn him."

He snarls at me, hands curling into fists.

"I know it's not easy, George. But you have to pull yourself togeth-"

CRASH. With an incoherent shout and a distinct shattering sound, George spins around and slams his fist into the bathroom mirror, smashing it into thousands of razor sharp shards that fall like glittering, glassy raindrops onto the counter and floor.

"Godric," I breathe, backing away a few steps.

"Bugger it all," he growls, shaking his hand out and licking away a trickle of blood from his knuckles.

"Sit down, George, please," I plead softly. I take his hand and run my wand over it. "Episkey."

The fresh scrapes on his knuckles heal, leaving behind a bit of blood, bright against his pale skin. "Thanks."

He sighs heavily and sits on the tile floor, leaning against the porcelain edge of the bathtub and tucking his knees to his chest. He stares at the floor with wide, unblinking eyes, hollowed to nothing but a plain of expressionless blue, like the ocean but scarier, not because I feel like I could drown in it, but because I feel like I can't. Like something's shutting me out with a quiet desperation, a pleading to be left alone. Like if I did somehow manage to get past his barriers, I'd end up floating through rolling planes of nothingness, like Purgatory, like there's no escape from the hollowness of loss, the unfathomable abyss of the cerulean depths.

I sit next to him, wondering if I should put an arm around him or something, or would he just shrug it off? Would he even feel it, he's so far gone…After a moment of consideration, I tentatively lean my head on his shoulder. He tenses, but twines an arm loosely around my waist.

"When we were twelve, we spent nearly three weeks pretending to be each other," he says wistfully. "No one figured it out, not even Mum."

My eyes are closed, but I sense a fond smile gracing his features. I don't want to risk missing it, so I open my eyes and sure enough it's there, sweet and wonderful, despite his eyes still being hauntingly empty. "We ended up getting so confused. For all we know, I could be Fred and he could be George, and nobody would ever know."

He laughs softly, an odd, out of place sort of sound, but a thought crosses my mind. "Would you switch places with him right now?"

George's expressions of fond reminisce turns into one of deep contemplation. I study him carefully. The slight narrowing of his bloodshot eyes, the minute downward tilt of his ginger eyebrows.

"No," he finally answers. "I wouldn't want him to go through this. I feel like, on one hand, that I'm reacting worse than I should be, because he's…he's not…well, you know. But on the other hand, it's almost like he is. He just lies there, and…and I think it's worse because…he almost looks like he's asleep, but I-I have to remind myself that I can't just shake him awake and…that he can't finish my sentences…and…Hermione, what if he doesn't ever come out of it? I don't…I don't want to be…'and George' for the rest of my life! We're supposed to…to be twins...It should've been both of us! There…there has to be some way to fix this, Hermione."

"I remember Ginny telling me something a long time ago. She said, 'When you grow up with Fred and George, you start to think that anything's possible, if you've got enough nerve.'"

* * *

A/N: Next chapter is when the title of this fic should make slightly more sense. Thanks for sticking with this, those of you that have. I know my writing can get a bit drawn-out in places.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This is a bit of a bridge chapter, to be honest. Sorry. But I'll have Chapter Seven up within a few days, so you don't have long to wait, I promise. Also, it gets a bit funnier as it progresses through the chapters. Just letting you know.

* * *

"You're Hermione Jean Bloody Granger!" Ron exclaims. "You must know something!"

"Shh! Do you want to wake the rest of the house?" George scolds quietly.

"We've got Silencing and Locking Charms on the room," Ron reminds him, raising an eyebrow.

"We're paranoid and your voice aggravates us," I smirk. "Now shush."

Ron half-glares, half-grins at me and rests a hand on Fred's forehead, running his fingers through his older brother's hair.

"Lumos," Harry says, relighting his dimming wand and placing it back on Fred's beside table. It casts a bright white ray of light over Fred's expressionless face.

"Get me a picture of him," I whisper to George, who Accios a small photograph of Fred from the top of the dresser.

Well, it's supposed to be of Fred, but the frame is empty. No Fred in sight, just the familiar surroundings of the Gryffindor common room. "Fred? You there?"

Nothing. "Is he gone from all the pictures?" Harry inquires, frowning and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"I think so," George replies, his voice suddenly hollow. The sparkle of hope in his eyes is sucked away like water down a shower drain.

"No matter. There's still a way," I assure him, gingerly poking a bandaged wound on Fred's upper arm. "But it's not exactly easy or particularly safe, at least as far as I know."

"If you don't want to do it, I will," George says hastily.

"What is it?" Ron asks impatiently.

"In fourth year, I stumbled upon a book in the library's Restricted Section. It was ancient. You know, binding torn, cover ripped, pages yellowing. There wasn't even a title or an author noted. Anyways, after I determined that it wouldn't possess me or melt my eyes out or something, I started reading it. It seemed to be merely an extremely advanced spell book.

"I actually found an odd sort of charm that allows the caster to go inside the target's mind. Not quite like Legilimency. It enables you to travel through someone's memories, desires, and subconscious mind-"

"And?"

"And, Ronald, I was thinking we might be able to travel to Fred's subconscious and bring him back to the conscious side."

The awed silence that overtakes the twin's bedroom is absolutely deafening, until Harry bombards me with questions.

"What's the danger, how long will that take, and how can you be sure this isn't Dark Magic?"

"You could theoretically get lost or trapped in someone's mind, I don't know but probably not more than a few hours, and because if someone who isn't emotionally close to the target attempted it, they could, again, get lost or trapped, or even killed. For example, if Rookwood had tried it on Fred, he might've died."

"Makes me wish he had," George says flatly, intertwining his fingers with those of his unresponsive twin.

"Can you get the book?" Harry asks.

"If I could waltz back into the desecrated remains of Hogwarts and search through the library that was pretty much burned to the ground, then I suppose there's a way," I reply sarcastically.

"So the library couldn't burn down once during the all the years we went to school, but as soon as we're done-BAM! Ashes, ashes, everywhere!" George cries, dramatic and exasperated.

"I blame Seamus Finnegan for all of the fires," Ron smirks. Harry and I snort.

"So who should cast it?" Ron asks.

"George, probably. Since he's the closest to Fred, he'd have the least chance of losing his way," I answer, cocking my head toward George.

"Of course I'll do it, but…I…can I have Hermione as back-up? I'd like a guide of some kind."

I glance down at Fred. "I can try. I mean, I don't think he'd flat-out reject me."

"Of course he wouldn't. He was quite fond of you, you know."

The room falls silent again. No one can tell if he's joking.

* * *

Exactly twenty four hours later, George, Ron, Harry, and I find ourselves in the exact same place we were before: huddled around Fred's comatose form at four in the morning, hushing our voices despite our Muffliato charms, because war causes paranoia, I suppose.

"Look alive," Ron mumbles, yawning widely and grimacing as he sips his coffee.

"Last chance to back out, Hermione," George reminds me before downing half his mug in one gulp and pulling a face of pure disgust.

"Same to you."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Then neither am I."

"Good luck," Harry says.

"Thanks. So, Harry and Ron, you'll watch for anything unusual from George and I. If anything does happen, Ron, you're our primary backup. Harry, if something happens to Ron, stay out of Fred's mind and Apparate us to St. Mungo's," I remind everyone quickly between sips of coffee.

"How do you drink this stuff?" Ron asks, coughing and gagging on another sip.

"For the hundredth time, Ronald, you have to add sugar. You just have to. I know you don't like listening to me, but I am, as usual, correct."

"It's just past four, so if we're still out by seven, get us to St. Mungo's, THEN get the rest of the family," George clarifies.

"Wait, so would I go in or not?" Ron frowns.

"You would. Don't get anyone else involved. Harry, if Ron goes in and something happens, follow George's plan."

"Got it."

"Here?" George asks, indicating the middle of Fred's sternum.

"Right." I circle around the bed so I'm opposite George, on Fred's left side. "On three."

We place the tips of our wands together on Fred's rhythmically rising and falling chest. "One…two…three…Spirantexcitarent."

Distantly, I feel myself collapse to the ground with a thud. The twins' bedroom evaporates to black and my vision is blinded by chromatic swirls and bursts of colour.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the lack of eventfulness in this chapter. If anyone has any suggestions for anything they'd like to see coming up, now would be a fantastic time to make them. And as usual, con crit/reviews are greatly appreciated. And thank you to everyone who followed, favourited, or reviewed before. Love and virtual hugs for you guys!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: And then it got awesome. This is starting to get both more fun and more difficult to write, but I have no intention of ever abandoning anything I start, so I'll force my muse to work overtime if I have to (she gets paid in reviews, so let's try to keep her happy, shall we?)

Also, don't anyone ever ask me how this spell works. The idea popped into my mind a while ago at around two in the morning. I have no idea how to explain any of this, and I'm literally coming up with effects and whatnot as I write. But I hope you enjoy it all the same! And of course, reviews, con crit, suggestions, and corrections are greatly appreciated.

* * *

A blinding, searing pain works its way through my entire body, starting deep in my chest, spreading through my limbs like fire burning paths through my veins. It's like Malfoy Manor all over again, but far more merciful. It's gone soon after it starts. I pull myself up, too fascinated by my surroundings to immediately hear the worried voice begging my attention.

"What happened to you?" George wonders, scrutinising me through fearful eyes and snapping his fingers in front of my face.

"Nothing, don't worry about it. Let's go."

"Go where?"

We're standing in a corridor that appears to expand endlessly in front of and behind us. The walls are bright orange and lined with a seemingly infinite number of doors, none with any indication as to where they might lead. Occasionally, bright fireworks explode from thin air. Very Fred-like indeed. Everything seems slightly blurred and fuzzy, surreal in a sense, like a vision obscured by fog or smoke.

"Maybe we can work this place like the Room of Requirement?" George suggests, yelping as something that suspiciously resembles a Fanged Frisbee narrowly misses his head. "OY! See, Fred? This is why we can't have nice things!"

"That's…I can't tell if you're a genius or an idiot."

"I am one of the inventors of Extendable Ears, Madame," he replies, sticking his nose into the air. "I am obviously a genius. I'll try my idea; you see where those doors go."

I nod, turning to the nearest one and throwing caution to the wind with a swift turn of the golden knob. I step inside before I can lose my nerve.

"I'm holey," I hear a low voice croak. The door slams shut behind me and I'm suddenly stock-still, my feet apparently frozen to the floor, whether through fear or because that's what's supposed to happen I can't tell, of the Burrow's living room while a scene unfolds before my eyes.

"I'm holey, Fred, geddit?"

George is lying on the couch, pale and soaked in blood. Fred clutches his hand, his expression flickering back and forth from concern and amusement. There's a fondness in his eyes I've never seen before from him. It's slightly jarring, seeing Fred Weasley genuinely afraid for someone's well-being. Not that he's a sociopath or something…I just never realised he was capable of taking things seriously.

"The whole wide world of ear-related humour before you, and you go for 'holey'?" Fred teases. "Pathetic."

They break into identical grins. "You alright, Georgie?"

"Never better, Freddie."

The memory fades to black and the door creaks open behind me. George looks absolutely sick with worry, swaying unsteadily on his feet.

"Calm down, George, nothing's killed me."

"Sorry…I, you know, I don't this too often," he jokes faintly.

"The doors lead to memories," I inform him. "How did your idea work out?"

"Behold!" he says triumphantly, holding his arms out toward a fork in the hallway. "I asked for directions, and here we are!"

There are four pointers in the fork- memories, dreams, desires, fears, and subconscious. I look at the one that reads "subconscious," pointing to the side, but there doesn't seem to be a path out of the corridor.

"I don't think this is right, George. There's still no end to the hallwa-"

"Grab the forks."

"What was that?" George asks, head snapping up to look at the ceiling.

"Here."

"And what in the name of Helga Hufflepuff's plus-sized dress robes is going on now?" George cries out in frustration, looking around for the source of the voice and finding nothing.

I snort. "Why would you assume plus-sized?"

"Most of the Hogwarts recipes were from her, you know."

"Well of course I know that, but it doesn't mean she was fa-"

"OY! Pay attention; I'm trying to help you out here!"

"Right, right, sorr-are you a Patronus?" I ask, squinting down the hallway at the bright figure illuminating a portion of the hall further down the way. The blazing silvery-white figure bounds down the corridor, skidding to a halt at our feet.

"Fred's Patronus?" George asks with obvious confusion.

"Your Patronus, too, you know."

A large, solid-looking silver dog not unlike the Patronus of Sirius Black paces around us, wagging its shaggy tail. I never knew what either twin's Patronus was, though I did always assume they would take the same form. I've always wondered if someone could have the Cheshire Cat as a Patronus, because that's what I've always thought of when the twins broke into their identical mischievous grins. Something annoyingly bright and obnoxious, but somehow loveable all the same. But when I think about it, a dog is perfect for Fred and George- loud and obnoxious, but loyal, sweet, and of course loveable all the same.

"Wait, so what exactly are you…" George asks, trailing off, confused.

"I'm just a guide. Fred knows you're here, but he can't leave until you reach him first. So I came here to guide you because you're Fred's only hope of recovery."

"Wait, he knows we're here?" George asks, eyes suddenly brightening.

"He can't communicate with you, directly or indirectly, but he's aware of your presence. He can hear us but he can't respond; he has no command over himself, otherwise he wouldn't be comatose."

"But…I don't understand why he can't talk to us. He knows we're here!" George says, seeming slightly panicked. "Is there something wrong with him?"

"Well, nothing unless you count the coma. Just because you've infiltrated his head doesn't mean you've succeeded quite yet."

"Well what do we have to do first?" I ask, cutting George off before he can ask the dog more useless questions.

"I'm taking you on a tour of his mind."

"How does that help at all?" George protests. "I'm his twin; I think I know everything there is to know about Fred!"

"Hermione doesn't."

"But we're trying to get him out a coma! We don't need to-"

"There's method to the madness, George. You see, Fred can't object to anything I do. The worst that could happen would be for his mind to reject one or both of you, which would probably be…ehh…moderately catastrophic, but that's pretty unlikely-"

"I don't want to risk that-" I protest.

"Don't worry about it; you're just going to scare yourself. Since he can't stop my plans, I'm going to take this opportunity to let you two in on some rather important things he's been hiding from both of you. Well, mostly you, Hermione. Since he was too much of a git to advance his relationship with you when he was fully alive, I'm going to clear some things up and move some things along whether he likes it or not."

"So what exactly are we doing?" George wonders, looking back up at the odd fork in the corridor.

"I'm just going to bring you guys around, show you the things that are most significant in each category. We can start with memories if you'd like."

George and I exchange fleeting glances, his excited and mine disapproving. George groans. "I know that face, Hermione. That's the 'stop testing on first-years face,' and we're not letting you talk us out of invading my twin's privacy while he's too comatose to stop us. Now let's move, before Ron gets scared and decides to join us."

I sigh heavily and follow George and the Patronus down the hallway to one of the innumerable doors. "Hermione?" the dog prompts.

"When's it from?"

"I don't know, I just want you to test one."

George nudges my shoulder. "Go on, open it."

I twist the knob and the three of us creep inside. The door shuts with a slam and a gust of air, and the Great Hall, fully decked and Christmas-y, appears before our eyes.

"And here comes Krum…" one of the twins states, bumping the other with his elbow.

"Wonder who he came with?" the other frowns slightly.

I feel a slight blush of embarrassment as I watch my fifteen-year-old self glide into the Great Hall, my arm looped with Krum's and my face conveying an odd, happy anxiety. My periwinkle robes float around me like fabric clouds.

"Who is she?" one of the twins whispers to the other.

"I…Merlin, she seems vaguely familiar, but I can't place it…Ugh, this is going to bother me all night," the other groans.

"Wait. Wait. George…" Fred hisses as Viktor and I spin in time to the light tune filling the room. "I think that's Hermione."

"You're mad-Oh my Godric, I- it is!" George gasps.

"She's bloody gorgeous-"

"Should've asked her sooner, eh, mate? Told you not to chicken out," George teases, snickering as Fred rolls his eyes and groans in frustration.

"And that's about enough of that," the Patronus interrupts, causing the image to flicker and fade as the door cracks open behind us.

"Did you guys photograph me that night?" I ask George.

"I didn't, that was Fred. How did you know about that?"

"The picture is plastered the wall above the bunk beds. I couldn't for the life of me remember anyone photographing me that night. How did you manage that?"

"Ask us no questions, and-"

"George?"

"I…I'm sorry…I'm sorry, I-" he whispers faintly, tearing up. "I've never said that whole sentence, only ever started or ended it…and-and Fred would always do the other half."


	8. Chapter 8

**Harry's POV**

"I can't believe you two," Ginny sighs, rolling her eyes, though I don't see the slightest hint of disapproval.

"Hey!" Ron protests. "It was Hermione's idea!"

"Why didn't you tell me in the first place anyways?" she asks. And now I feel awful, for not including my own girlfriend in my attempt to save her older brother.

"I'm not mad, just wondering."

"I kind of wanted to keep it a surprise," I admit sheepishly. "I mean, George had to be involved, of course, and Ron's here because he's emergency back-up-"

"You'd trust Ron as back-up?" Ginny snickers, raising an eyebrow at an indignantly scowling Ron.

I stifle a laugh for the sake of Ron's fragile pride. "C'mon, Gin, have a little faith."

"You know I'm kidding, right, Ronnikens?"

He rolls his eyes at her and sips his coffee. "I can't believe I'm up at four thirty and I'm not afraid of getting killed."

"Funny, isn't it? But I'm scared for Hermione and the twins," I confess, looking down at the inert figure of the woman who might as well be my sister, along with two men whom I consider brothers. Shortly after George and Hermione passed out, Ron and I moved the three bodies to the floor, somehow figuring that keeping them close together might lessen the risk. I don't know what lead us to think that, but if it helps us, I don't question it. George is between Fred and Hermione, with one hand in his twin's and one resting on Hermione's. We thought he'd be best in the centre, as he is the main bridge between Fred's conscious and subconscious; Hermione's really just a guide, though irreplaceable all the same.

Ginny pulls my coffee from my hands and drinks some, shaking her head and blinking rapidly. Her ginger ponytail swings from side to side, and I restrain the immature urge to bat her hair around like a kitten pawing at a fishing string toy.

"You can go to sleep, you know," Ron says.

"I can't now; I'm too scared."

"Nothing's going to happen," I assure her, though I feel the fear creeping insidiously into my mind. Is it right, reassuring someone when you have so little confidence yourself?

"Wonder what they're doing in there," Ron whispers curiously.

* * *

"That's the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life!" I exclaim, gasping for air through my side-splitting laughter. "Merlin's pants, that's even better than when I decked Malfoy!"

"You decked Malfoy?" George gasps disbelievingly. "Why wasn't I informed?"

"It was in my third year. But seriously…Merlin, that was the best…Oh my God, I just…I can't…"

"Don't judge me! It was just a love potion accident!" George protests, laughing and pushing me.

"Rather unfortunate, really. I think you and Lee would've made a great couple," I smirk.

"Oh, shut it."

"That's why they have these things called 'brain cells,' George, so you don't end up in the middle of an Amortentia explosion. Honestly, I'm not sure who to feel worse for: Fred for walking in on that or Lee for being a part of it," I giggle hysterically.

"Lee should've felt lucky, if anything!"

"Oh yeah, George. It looked like you have some mad snogging skills," I scoff, my tone oozing sarcasm.

"I do!" he says indignantly.

"Well now that I've cheered you two up, we can move on to something more important," the Patronus interrupts.

I stifle my laughter and nod. "Where next?"

"This door, right here."

"Where does this one go?" George asks, eying it curiously.

"To something you don't know about."

George opens the door and we all go in, waiting for the memory to reveal itself. I see the Quidditch Pitch on a frigid, rainy day, with two figures clutching their brooms as they trudge through the field. Their heads are bowed against the howling wind and their red and gold robes are billowing around them.

"Wood's mad, I tell you," I hear Angelina Johnson complain to her companion.

"Oh, is he? I hadn't noticed," Fred answers sarcastically. "As much as I want to win, I'm considering skiving off practise tomorrow."

"Oh, don't do that! He'd have your head, sick or not."

Fred sighs. "You're probably right."

"I'm always right. And speaking of always being right…" Angelina starts, her voice taking on a teasing quality.

"Don't you dare-"

"How's Hermione?"

"I hate you."

"You couldn't hate me if you tried."

"I just- I just don't know how to even bring it up to her!"

Angelina and Fred make their way into a corridor of the castle, shaking their heads and rubbing their raw hands together. "What are you so afraid is going to happen?"

"We're complete opposites!" Fred says. "She's the swotty, know-it-all bookworm and I'm the bloke who doesn't even know what chapter we're on in Arithmancy. Which reminds me, can I copy your homework for that later?"

"Chapter seven, and sure. Fred, you're thinking of 'opposite' in the wrong light. Draco Malfoy is Hermione's opposite. You and Hermione have different personalities, but you believe the same things. You're intrinsically the same. Both inherently good people, both intelligent in your own ways and besides, she likes the rest of your family, right?" Angelina explains.

"Well, even if that's all true, she hates me," Fred says glumly.

"She doesn't hate you, Fred. She hates some things you do, yes. But she doesn't hate you as a human being."

"What if I did ask her out and she told me we were too different or something?"

"Fred, I don't want you to change yourself as a person, because then you wouldn't be you, and I wouldn't want to hang around some watered-down, Percy-ish Fred all day. But let's face it: it wouldn't kill you to lay off on some of the testing-on-first-years and skiving off classes. And if Hermione is your incentive to do that, I don't see the problem."

"But what if she tries to turn me into some swotty little nancy boy?"

Angelina rolls her eyes. "She wouldn't do that to you. She might be a know-it-all but she isn't a bitch, Fred, from what I know anyway."

"But-"

"Weasley, I know you too well. You're just trying to think of what-ifs so you have a stockpile of excuses for chickening out. You're going to miss your shot, and you're going to regret it. Now are you a Gryffindor, or what?"

"So now you're questioning my courage?" he gasps, feigning hurt.

Angelina groans. "Damn right I am."

"Fine, fine. But I need to take a shower first."

"Yeah, I should too. Maybe you ought to ask Hermione to join you," Angelina smirks.

He scowls. "Maybe you should ask George to join you!" he retorts.

"You know there's nothing going on between me and George. He's too much like you."

"You wound me!" he gasps, laying a hand over his heart.

"Good. I've got to go, but remember what I said, alright? Some change wouldn't kill you, she's not going to transform you into Percy, and don't put it off or you'll miss your chance."

Fred turns away, a confused, thoughtful expression visible beneath a light layer of mud. The picture fizzles out and fades away.

"And of course from then, he went in a spiral of self-doubt and fear of rejection, and he eventually started thinking you were with Ron, or would be with him eventually, and decided he'd missed his chance, and pretty much settled for a friendship," the Patronus explains.

My thoughts are racing now, jumbled and tangled. "Is there anything else?"

"One more important memory, but I'm saving it for later. Now, we go to fears."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Once again, thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, and favourited this story. Feedback is like gold to a fanfiction author, so I can't thank you guys enough.

Anyways, from here it gets darker, then lighter, then darker again, then lighter, then there's the ending, which is still a major work in progress. We'll see how that turns out.

* * *

"Grab the fork," the dog instructs, titling his head up to the lowest sign on the fork in the corridor. Fears and Nightmares. This ought to be good.

Gingerly, George and I reach out and wrap our hands around it. Much like a Portkey, I feel the familiar though not particularly comfortable pull of an invisible hook behind my navel. I'm jerked through space, spun through the fibres of Fred's mind, and dropped on my face in a dark, dreary room.

"What is this place?" George wonders, pushing himself to his feet and looking around the dank room. It's small, claustrophobia-inducing, and barely lit. I'm half-expecting cobwebs in the corners of the charcoal grey walls.

"Where'd our guide go?"

"Oh Merlin," George sighs. "Could've at least installed a light switch, Fred," he mutters.

"It's dark because this is a side of himself Fred never liked to face. He was quite proud, your twin. Hated admitting fears; preferred to push them aside where he would never have to consider them," a voice informs us.

"Who's talking?" George demands.

"Down here."

A long, dark green snake slithers into view, twining itself around my feet. George shrieks and jumps back, flattening himself against a wall with heaving breaths and widened eyes.

"You're afraid of snakes?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"They both are, then," the snake answers. "I'm the guide for this section; the object of one of Fred's simpler fears. He's got more complicated ones-I'm not going to hurt you, you know," he says to George, who appears to be holding back a panic attack of epic proportions.

"Relax, George, you're fine," I comfort him as he inches away with his back against the wall. I suppress the insensitive urge to roll my eyes.

"Well, let's get moving," the snake says. "This way, if you please."

Before George can object, I grab his wrist and pull him across the creepy room, following close behind the curving path of the serpent.

"Fred's worst nightmares and fears," the snake explains, pointing in the direction of a black chest with five narrow drawers. "The one at the top is the worst, so I'd suggest picking that one last. Each one reveals a situation in which one of Fred's fears or nightmares occurs. Care to try it out?"

Taking exaggeratedly wide steps around the snake, George makes his way to the drawers, crouching down to the bottom one. We lean in, watching a scene unfold at the bottom of the empty drawer, like watching a movie.

"This is just disgraceful!" Molly shrieks, slamming a frying pan down on the Burrow's kitchen counter. The sound sends a metallic ring echoing through my head.

"We're sorry, Mum! But we just don't see the point of going into Ministry work when we're doing fine with the shop!" one of the twins protests.

"I didn't raise you two to be pranksters!" Molly yells.

"We run the most successful shop in the Alley!" the other twin shouts back. "Maybe you could be proud of us for following our dreams or something-"

"Ron helped defeat You-Know-Who! Bill is a curse breaker, Charlie is a dragon handler, and what have you two done? What have you ever amounted to? Nothing, absolutely nothing! How I raised five wonderful children and then somehow you two, I have no idea!"

"We're successful in the way we think is best for ourselves!"

"Is that so bad?"

"Maybe I was stupid to think you would turn out well."

"We turned out fine!"

"Maybe in your own heads; not the way this family sees 'fine!'"

Fred and George look shocked, like they can't even think of anything to come back with, like they're starting to think Molly's right. In the silence, Molly crosses to the part of the room where the clock stands, the one with each family member's face on a spoon, indicating location. She wrenches the twins' spoons off the clock's face and throws them across the room. George slams the drawer shut, shaking his head.

"Next one," he squeaks, pulling out the second drawer from the bottom.

"I always knew they'd end up together," Ginny says dreamily, to no one in particular. She's in beautiful lilac dress robes, not unlike the dress I wore to Bill and Fleur's wedding.

"Yeah," a hollow voice responds. The voice belongs to Fred and he sounds choked up and miserable. The scene moves to a couple spinning joyfully around the floor, twirling and laughing together in their flawless dance.

Merlin's pants. I see myself in a stunning wedding robe, hair sleek and twisted up intricately. And I'm dancing with none other than Ron Weasley, who I decided was no better boyfriend material for me than Harry. But of course, how would Fred know that? In his own mind, he had already missed his chance, so the impossible situation unfolding in front of me is still possible, and probable, to him.

"They look so happy together," Luna comments. She's decked out in bright yellow and orange, colours only she could pull off. Her white-blonde hair is adorned with a wreath of large, colourful flowers.

"They're perfect for each other," Ginny replies, sounding giddy and overwhelmed.

Fred sighs heavily, moving away from the happiness, off on his own.

"So you've got his bullocks in your pocket and you didn't even realise," George laughs, shutting the drawer.

"She doesn't even know the half of it," the snake comments.

I roll my eyes and pull the next drawer.

* * *

**Ginny's POV**

I creep back up the stairs as quietly as I can, with a bag of chocolates in one hand and a photograph in the other. I found a picture of seven-year-old Ron teaching six-year-old me how to tie shoelaces. We're sitting on the living room floor, him on one knee, walking me through the steps, and me with my chubby six-year-old legs in front of me, staring at him blankly, like he's demonstrating the most complicated hex in the world.

The twins have always been protective of me, much kinder to me than to the rest of my siblings. Maybe it's because I'm the youngest, or because I'm the only girl. It's not like they never pranked me or made fun of me, but they were much nicer about it. I remember them fawning over me when I was younger in a way that reminded me greatly of Mum. I nicked the photo so George could put it up on his ceiling. After all, he was the one that took it.

I glance over at the clock. It's nearly five in the morning, but there's a much more interesting thing that catches my eye.

Everyone's home, of course. Eight spoons are all pointing the same way. I look for the missing one and find Fred, who is, according to the clock, lost. Lost? What's that supposed to mean? Dead lost? Lost in his mind, lost in some other world? I run back up the stairs, feeling the panic set in.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Is there anything better than frequent updates? Well, maybe they're not that great if you're a really slow reader. Well anyways, thank you again to everyone following, favourite-ing, and reviewing. You guys keep the muse alive.

* * *

**Hermione's POV**

I can't quite describe the terror that grips me, claws its way up my throat, latches onto my lungs and seizes the air straight out of them. The vision is so vivid, so realistic, and so, so close to what almost actually happened; it hits too close to home. I can see the fear and horror on George's face, but it's nowhere near the level of mine. The idea of losing everything I've fought and suffered and bled for, the concept of a world ruled by Voldemort is so incomprehensibly horrifying that I don't even want to try to wrap my head around it.

Voldemort's cold, maniacal cackle fills the ruined area of Hogwarts as he announces that anyone who aided Harry will have to answer to him. I see all the Weasleys, myself, Luna, Neville, and several others being grabbed by Death Eaters, who no longer need their masks to conceal their twisted, inhuman smiles, and being dragged away.

George slams the drawer shut, eyes huge with fear. His chest heaves visibly. I feel like crying, like screaming, like hugging George and never letting go, because in a world ruled like Voldemort, there would be no emotion but constant, ubiquitous fear, and I'm assuming there wouldn't be a whole lot of hugging either. But I restrain myself, dig my nails into my forearms, plant my feet to the ground.

"How could that only be third?" George exclaims. "How could he possibly think of anything worse?"

The snake hisses, the sound coming out like a strange, serpentine attempt at a laugh. "One is due to circumstance. I know that you share the first fear with him, only with the roles reversed. You aren't aware of its important standing in your mind because you're currently living a version of it."

"What are you talking about?" George demands.

"You'll see. But first, look at the second fear."

I nod, opening the drawer and peering into what appears to be endless white fog, similar to the Veil. I watch curiously as a stocky figure meanders in, obscured by the swirling clouds of white. Slowly, his face comes into view. Fred, looking tired and haggard, worn out and exhausted. He wanders through aimlessly, occasionally encountering dogs, snakes, small children, family members. They have nothing to say to him.

"Please," he gasps. His voice is raspy and gravelly, like the voice of a man who hasn't seen a drop of water in days. "Please, tell me how I can get out of here."

Mournfully, the child he was addressing looks down, shaking his head. His eyes are brown, wide and sad. His hair is scraggly and red, and he doesn't appear to be any older than five or six.

"Please?"

"I don't know how."

Fred groans and sits down, his head in his hands. More figures pass by. I see Arthur, Ron, and Fleur walk through. None even look his way. They don't even appear to be solid; maybe they're just fog, as inconsistent as the white surrounding Fred.

"Where is that place? What is it?" I ask.

"That's his subconscious."

"His…wait what?"

"That's why he can't get himself out of this comatose mess, because he can't find a way out of his own mind. It's constantly shifting and changing. Those figures are just figments from various parts of his mind, but they don't know any more than he does."

"So that's why the spell is so dangerous?" I realise. "Because people would get lost in the target's subconscious?"

"Exactly. Once you're in your own subconscious, you've got three options: you can wait, you can try to find your way out, but it's extraordinarily difficult, or you can pass over to the other side. You can choose to die."

"How do you do that?" George asks.

"All you have to do is ask one of the figures you encounter. They can get you out that way. The things that kept Fred here was hearing you guys talking to or about him."

"He could hear us?"

"Not directly. Again, it's all the figures. He would ask if they had any new information. That's how he found out you cast the spell. He knows you smashed the mirror, George. He knows Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Ginny would spend hours at a time filling him in on various happenings. He's heard of everything said in earshot of his body."

"That's unbelievable," I breathe.

"Indeed it is. But like I said, there's no guide for that part of his mind. It can be dangerous work."

"We'll manage."

* * *

**Ron's POV**

"He's lost?" I ask, horrified. Ginny nods solemnly.

"What do you mean 'lost'?" Harry wonders.

She shakes her head. "I don't know. Maybe we'll find out later."

A tear rolls down her cheek. "I'm sorry. I'm just…it's late and I'm scared and-and I found this photo George took, of us, Ron. When we were kids and you taught me how to tie my shoes, remember?" she laughs half-heartedly.

I nod, recalling my six-year-old self's attempts to keep my frustration under wraps. I've never been a particularly patient person. I remember considering asking one of the twins to teach her, but then deciding that, no, as her closest-in-age older brother, I was going to teach her to tie her shoelaces if it took me all day and night because I enjoyed the idea of teaching someone something useful. I wanted my baby sister to have a memory of me doing something helpful for her.

Eight-year-old George had come in with Dad's camera, as he and Fred had insisted they wanted to learn to use it. He had chuckled at Ginny, sitting on the floor with her legs out and her shoelaces tangled together in an awful knot, with her head cocked to the side and her expression somewhere between awed and hopelessly lost. And then he had taken the photograph, which for some reason never ended up on the ceiling.

Harry grins at it and sets in on the bedside table. Photo-me unties my shoelaces and starts again, slowly explaining how to loop the strings around each other.

"Two more hours, then you can go in," Harry reminds me.

"A lot could happen in two hours," I say.

"They're going to be fine," Ginny insists.

"How do you know?" I demand.

"I just do!" she answers stubbornly. She kneels on the floor next to Fred, cradling his free hand in both of hers. Of course, he doesn't react.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: There's a reason I don't write much romance, and it will become apparent in a few paragraphs. It's because it always turns out awkward. I tried to make this chapter a bit happier because the next one, while short, is turning out pretty depressing. Also, I feel I should warn that there is a bit of innuendo/mention of sex, but it is, at least by my standards, really mild. Nothing at all pushing the T rating. But I don't know what my followers do and don't read, so excuse the oddness of the warning, but it's there in case you feel it should be, though I feel stupid writing it because it's barely worth mentioning. Maybe I'm just embarrassed by my own writing. Well, regardless:

* * *

"So his second greatest fear is not coming out of the coma," I clarify. The snake hisses an affirmative and George pulls the last drawer.

I look into the bottom with a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach; not quite butterflies, but something nervous and morbidly curious.

I see a nondescript room, the type that could be anywhere, really. The picture blurs, fizzles in place, clearing up slowly. There's a wail, a scream of unimaginable sorrow, something a thousand times worse than physical pain, like Percy's yell from the Battle but magnified a hundred times. Or maybe a thousand. The sound of uncontrollable sobbing mixed with odd, loud cries, tearing through the air. And then there's George, sprawled out on the ground, bloody and motionless, with Fred crying, kneeling at his side with his head bowed over George's chest.

George slams the door shut violently. He looks pale and sick, white as a sheet, like all the colour drained from his face. Swaying on his feet, he crouches down, holding his head like he has a migraine. I feel so awful for him; how stressful this experience must be. I miss Fred terribly, but my grief could never measure up. Of course, George lost someone who was the closest one he ever had, who was his other half. It doesn't even matter that Fred never technically died. In a way, it was close enough. Part of me maintains that it was merciful that George wasn't there when the wall collapsed.

He stands again and the emotion in his eyes is gone, drained; his eyes have been reduced to blank blue circles, meaningless.

"It had to get worse before it can get better," the snake interjects. "We have two more things to view."

* * *

"I can't guide you in this part of his mind that deals with hopes and dreams," the snake says. "I don't know the ropes. But there'll be a little boy who does; the same one from the coma nightmare with the red hair and brown eyes."

"Why does he guide the Hopes section?" I ask curiously.

"That you will find out for yourself. And this is where I leave you. Grab the fork."

The fork stands in the doorway of the dark, awful room, with its direction signs leading all different ways. George and I grab the top sign, and with an uncomfortable tugging sensation, we're yanked through Fred's mind, twisted and spun and contorted. We collapse in a spacious room with light blue walls. Three of them are covered in several small, circular windows, each with a blue curtain drawn over it.

"Hello, Hermione, George," a voice greets us.

I look down and see a young boy looking up at me, just as the serpent described, though he failed to mention the adorable freckles across his face and the oversized magenta WWW robes.

"Hello," George says. "We're here for the tour/invasion of my twin's privacy."

The little boy laughs. "I know what you're here for. Each window shows a desire. Some are smaller, others quite significant. The left wall is for ones from his childhood, ones that barely matter anymore, if at all. The front wall is for immediate ones, things he wants within a few years or so. And the right wall is for things he wants in...about five years or more. The left wall isn't particularly important, so in the interest of time, we're skipping over it."

The boy walks to the centre wall and pulls a curtain aside. "Here. Hermione, this is for you."

I see myself, sitting cross-legged on a box in what appears to be the back room of WWW. My hair is piled messily on top of my head and I'm stirring the ominously-smoking contents of a small cauldron on a table in front of me.

Fred comes in, slipping off his robes and hanging them up. He sits across from me. "How's it working out?"

I smile at him. "Almost done, and with much better results than your twin and poor Lee Jordan got," I snicker.

"Must you remind me of my traumatic experiences?"

I chuckle. "Yes," I reply simply, stirring the potion. "What are you even going to use Amortentia in?"

"New version of Daydream Charms."

I roll my eyes. "Leave me out of the testing."

He groans dramatically. "Fine."

"And...wait," I add a sprinkle of something to it. "..I think it's done."

"Light pink?"

"Light pink."

"What do you smell?"

I narrow my eyes. "Why should I tell you?"

"Because I asked."

"No."

Grinning mischievously, he stands up and walks behind me, leaning over my shoulder. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Why do you want to know?"

He wraps his arms around my waist, presses a kiss to my neck.

I start to feel like I'm intruding; watching something too intimate for outside eyes, even though I'm just watching me, if that makes it any better. George is watching, torn between amusement and awkwardness.

"Please?" Fred whispers in my ear.

"Freshly mowed grass, new parchment, and spearmint toothpaste," I answer breathlessly as Fred presses trails of kisses up and down my neck.

The little boy pulls the curtain shut. "Don't think you'll want to see how the rest of that plays out, but you get the point."

My eyes widen and George stifles a laugh.

"Hermione, he is a twenty year old man," George reminds me unnecessarily. I feel a blush creeping up in the moment of awkward silence that follows. George pats me on the shoulder, snickering. "I have the feeling you ought to stay away from the others."

"I would advise that," the boy confirms.

"So I can imagine the other important immediate desire he has is to get out of the coma?" I ask, anxious to end the conversation on that particular aspect of Fred's thoughts.

"You saved us a bit of time. One more," he says, drawing a curtain on the right wall.

I see myself, maybe in my mid-twenties, sitting at kitchen counter. Fred and George are sitting together on the other side, and Angelina is next to me. Wedding rings glitter on our left ring fingers.

"So he woke up the next morning-" George starts, grinning.

"And his hair was electric blue!" Fred laughs.

"You didn't!" Angelina gasps.

"He deserved it!" Fred protests. "He's Percy, and therefore a git. So, in conclusion, he had it coming."

I shake my head, smiling and chuckling.

"Mummy!" a young voice calls.

"In here!" I call back.

Two children run in on short, stubby legs, a girl with short brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles, and a boy identical to the guide.

"Twins?" George asks the guide, who promptly nods.

The girl runs up to me, tugging on the leg of my jeans. "How old?" I ask the guide.

"Six or so."

"Mummy, mummy!" the little girl shouts. I lean down to pick her up, setting her on the kitchen counter. Angelina smiles and hugs her. "Hi, Aunt Angelina! Uncle George!"

"Hey! Oof-" the little boy runs into George as he leans down to pick him up, colliding with George's stomach. "Okay, okay, ow, alright."

"Okay. What do you need, Sweetie?" I ask my daughter.

"He turned my teddy bear into a giant spider!" the girl wails, pointing an accusing finger at the boy.

"He what?"

Fred and George look down at the boy with identical grins. "That's my boy!" they say together.

Fred picks him and hugs him to his chest. "Oh, I'm so proud of you, son!"

"Fred, don't encourage it!" I scold.

"Hey, how come you get to call Daddy by his real name?" the boy protests.

"Because I earned the right, being married to him every day," I answer.

Angelina laughs. "Sometimes I wonder what I was thinking," she teases George.

"Afraid of dying alone?" George grins. She reaches across the counter and pushes his shoulder. "Or am I just that go-"

"Cutting you off, mate, there are kids in the room," Fred interjects. "Not that I care, but if I don't say something then I won't be getting any lat-"

"Fred!" I yell.

The boy draws the curtains shut. "You get the point."

"That he wants to marry me and have children? Yeah, I think we've covered that," I say, looking at the window in awkward awe.

"So what were the kids' names?" George asks.

"I don't know. He never thought of names for them."

"So, wait, does that mean you don't have a name?" George asks.

The boy shakes his head. "Guides don't."

"Huh. So what now?"

"The final leg of the journey."

"You're just pushing us into his subconscious?" George panics.

"You'll see a long rope. One of you tie it around your waist, the other one keep hold of it. That should do it. This spell is so dangerous because no one thinks to bring a second person with them, or the second person can't maintain access. The rope should at least lessen the danger a bit, but I won't make any guarantees. But before you go there, you need to make a quick stop back in Memories. It's important."

I nod and grab George's hand in one fist and the fork in the other. "Thank you!" we yell as we're whisked away.

* * *

A/N: Hope that wasn't too painful for you guys to read. This chapter was harder to write than the others for some reason, but the writing gets better from here on out, I promise!


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Ready to be bombarded with angst? Of course you are! It's a short chapter, but I upload constantly. Enjoy!

* * *

**George's POV**

"I'm warning you, George, this won't be easy to watch," the Patronus says. We're standing in front of the last door in the hallway, the last of Fred's conscious memories. It's an eerie thought, reaching the end of his memories. The very last moment of my twin's consciousness.

"I know," I tell him. My voice sounds foreign, hollow. I don't want to see this. I truly, genuinely want to be anywhere but here. But my rebellious arm reaches out, twists the doorknob open. Deep down, I know I need to know what Fred's last non-coma moments were.

Suddenly, I'm in the Great Hall, in the nascent stages of the Battle. I see Hermione, Fred, Harry, Ron, and Percy, coughing and choking on the dusty air, dodging jets of colour that fly wildly in all directions. People scream and flee, falling to the ground, running to or from others. I feel the instinctive fear flowing through me, the flight or fight response being triggered. The morbid butterflies in my twisting stomach, not letting me turn my eyes away. I watch them stumble through wreckage and scream spells, sending bursts of colours at nearby Death Eaters.

"That's the first time I've heard you joke since-" Fred starts.

I flinch as the sound of an explosion rattles my head. A wall of the Great Hall crumbles and collapses, dust fills the air, and screams echo all around. For one torturous, tumultuous moment, it feels like time itself has halted, like I'm watching the scene in slow-motion. It's surreal, the way the wall starts to fall to the ground, almost like a person hit by a Killing Curse, collapsing in on itself, toppling over slowly, like reality itself can't believe what's happening. Hermione's eyes are shut tight in dreadful anticipation of what she knows is next. I can see her shoulders shaking, her whole body shuddering with the effort of keeping tears at bay. I lose sight of them in the memory, my vision obstructed by dense clouds of dust.

The dust in the air starts to thin, revealing the crumbled remains of the wall. In the memory, they clear rubble away, clamoring out of haphazard piles of debris. My breath catches in my throat and I feel like I'm being strangled. It's like one of those nightmares I used to get as a kid, where a monster is right behind me but my feet are pasted to the floor, only this time, the nightmare is in front of me and my eyes are being held open. A startling, blood-curling, almost unholy wail of anger and sorrow pierces the air. And then I see it. It was Percy who screamed, and now he and the rest of the group are stumbling clumsily to Fred. It's like the first time I saw him, only so much worse, seeing what actually happened. He's bleeding heavily, bruised, still pinned down by pieces of the destroyed wall. I feel the same sharp, unrelenting pain from the day I smashed the mirror, the kind that shuts down all rationality, the kind that makes nothing matter but the comatose form in front of you, the helplessness and fear and anxiety and uncertainty.

"Turn it off, Merlin, turn it off," I plead. I don't even feel it when I slam myself shoulder-first into the door, forcing it open.

"George-" Hermione starts.

I sink to my knees, sobs rising from my throat, constricting my windpipe to short, choked whimpers. I am as I was when I first saw Fred's body, comatose on Luna's bed, with the sorrow overtaking me like a tidal wave engulfing a city, destroying everything in its wake, drowning me. Mercifully, Hermione lets me stay there for a long, painful moment, wallowing in the pain of the memory, feeling the nauseous sensation in my stomach, twisting and contorting, tears stinging the back of my eyes, but no, no, I have to hold it together just a while longer. I have to stay strong, I can't lose sight of our point of undertaking this in the first place, I have to save him, my precious twin, the one who completed me for twenty years and isn't going to stop just because of some bloody coma.

Finally, when I feel strong enough, I stand, wavering slightly, pale and uncertain. I feel utterly lost, in complete despair, like I'll never be happy again, and I won't, not without him. I state the over-obvious, my voice coming out with an odd, cracked sort of determination. "We need to get him."

"Grab the fork," the Patronus says simply.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: This chapter was actually difficult to write. I mean, I got writer's block and had to try writing one-shots and stuff and this just wasn't working out but anyways, I finally got this done. I'm considering writing one more chapter after this, so that's in the works. As always, thank you to those who follow and review and whatnot. If no one showed any sign of caring, then obviously this story wouldn't exist.

Also, if you're having a bit of trouble envisioning my idea of Fred's subconscious, here's how I saw it: If anyone has seen the horror movie Silent Hill- it's a bit like the Fog Layer. If that didn't make any sense, I suppose it can also be imagined like the Veil from the Ministry of Magic.

And please ignore my lack of ability to write decent kissing scenes. I try, I really do.

Last thing, I promise. A while ago, I got a review (or was it a message? Huh) considering who should go after Fred. At first I liked the idea of Hermione going, but I decided on George because, come on. It's his twin. And with that-

* * *

**Hermione's POV**

"Do you want to go?" I ask.

"I don't know. I mean, yes, but I feel like it's going to be too emotional for me," George considers. I see the hesitation and self-doubt flickering in his eyes.

"You're closer to him than anyone, though," I remind him. "Don't you think the first person he'll want to see is his twin?"

"You're right." George hands me the rope and I help him tie it around his waist. "I'll tug it three times when I want to come back."

"Okay. Did they say if we'd be able to communicate?"

"No. We can try, see how long we can hear each other."

"Sounds good." I wind the rope tightly around my right hand. "Good luck, George."

"Thank you. Thank you, Hermione. I-I just can't tell you how important all of this is to me. I can't imagine what I would do without him..."

"I know, George. I know. But that's why we have to bring him back."

"Where do we go once we've got him out?"

"I…I guess we just grab the fork and see where it takes us."

"Thank you."

He looks at me for a long moment, searching, hopeful. He bridges the short distance between us and we wrap our arms around each other, trying to pour all our hopes and fears and gratitude into this one simple show of platonic affection.

"I love you, Hermione. I love you like a sister, like someone I couldn't live without," George murmurs into my ear.

"I love you too, George. More than you'll ever understand."

We break apart and exchange looks of assurance, determination. "Go," I tell him, firm and confident.

"Yes," he responds, turning away and venturing bravely into the fog.

* * *

**George's POV**

It's cold in here, where the bone-chilling fog swirls around like a freezing blanket, wrapping around my vulnerable flesh and sending icy shivers down my spine. I shiver violently, but I can't seem to shake the chill. It feels like the cold has seeped into my blood.

"Excuse me; can you direct me to Fred?" I ask a figure passing me. It's Bill, and he appears to be composed of coloured fog, not solid or consistent at all, like I could walk through him as though he's a ghost.

"Keep walking and you'll see a young woman with bushy hair sitting with a little girl. Ask her."

"How far is she?"

"Not far. But go now, before things start to shift."

I give the figure an expression of confusion, wondering what he means by "shift." He stares back at me with blank, glassy blue eyes, then turns and keeps walking. I shake my head, trying to clear it of the eerie feeling, and start sprinting madly through the fog. The fog swirls around me, shifting strangely. It's almost like running in slow-motion, or trying to run in water, the way I feel like I'm being pulled back, like the fog is trying to keep me from Fred. I wince as the rope bites into my torso. "Fred! Fred!"

"Stop!" a female voice demands. I spin and see a Fog Hermione with her Fog Future-Daughter. "Follow me."

"Where are we going?" I ask. She ignores me, but starts to talk about something else.

"There is a wall, if you walk long enough. Whatever you do, don't touch it."

"Why not?"

"You'll be trapped here, rope or no rope," the little girl tells me.

I nod. "So you're warning me not to go too far?"

Fog Hermione nods. "Be careful. And don't linger. Have your reunion outside the subconscious. Have it when you wake up. It is unwise to linger within the mind of another, whether or not you are close to them."

"Okay. I'll leave as soon as I get him. Where is he?"

"I don't think he's far. Keep calling his name until you get a response. He's constantly moving, of course. He's in no danger of the Wall; he's trapped either way. But it would be a shame to ruin your own mission by straying too far. You don't want to be trapped. Neither of you belongs here."

"Thank you so much."

The two girls smile at me and walk away, back to their original spot.

"Fred!" I shout, walking through the freezing fog. "FRED? FRED! WHERE ARE YOU?"

I'm met with an odd, echoing silence that fades quickly to a howling wind, with more fog engulfing me, biting into my skin. "HERMIONE? CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

"ARE YOU ALRIGHT, GEORGE?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

There's a low groaning sound, accompanied by creaking, like the noises the Hogwarts staircases make when they move.

"KEEP LOOKING!" she shouts back. Anxiously, I grab the rope trailing behind me. I feel a rush of relief when my hand meets the rough twine. At least that much is still intact.

"FRED? FRED, WHERE ARE YOU?"

"RUN TO THE SOUND!"

I sprint, feet barely hitting the ground, on and on, not meeting anything. "FRED?"

"OTHER WAY!"

Confused, I turn and start in the other direction, my breathing heavy and my lungs burning from the frigid air.

"IT SHIFTED!" he yells.

"WHAT?"

"DON'T, JUST-JUST KEEP RUNNING!"

So I do, until I see my twin, the one solid figure in the world of miserable fog. I grab his hand, reveling in the familiarity and solidness. "No time to explain, just follow the rope!" I tug the twine three times.

"HERMIONE!" I shout.

"FOLLOW YOUR OWN WAY BACK!" she responds. "IT'S NOT LETTING ME PULL YOU!"

"Oh for Merlin's sake," I mutter, walking straight ahead.

"The Wall, George!" Fred gasps. "Be careful!"

I jump back, nearly knocking into Fred. "Merlin."

"We have to get out of here, before things start moving again," he says.

I nod, shaking away the creeping fear. We start to run, picking up the rope as we go, following the path I made.

"To the left," a Fog-Charlie tells us as we run past.

It feels like the walls are closing in around us. I turn and see the Wall I was warned about moving in, closer and closer, trying to catch up with me. The fog figures dissolve straight through it. "Run faster," Fred advises breathlessly. I speed up, grabbing Fred's hand and dragging him along with me. The fog gets denser, obscuring our vision and making us trip on the rope.

"Go!" Hermione yells, pulling us out by the last bit of rope. "Merlin's pants. Let's go."

"Grab the fork!" I gasp. Confused and breathless, Fred obliges and we're moved violently into a new room, with a screen showing a room identical to our bedroom at the Burrow.

"Just walk into the room and you'll be back in your own bodies, waking up from your comatose states," the Patronus dog directs. "And congratulations, Hermione and George. Good job."

"Thank you," I gasp.

"Thank you for your help," Hermione says.

We grab hands and walk together, out of Fred's mind and back into our home.

* * *

"Hermione and George are waking up," I hear Ginny say, voice tinged with hopeful excitement. Slowly, I open my eyes to see Harry, Ron, and Ginny huddled around. I feel the hard floor under my back.

I look to the side and see Hermione grinning at me and laughing breathlessly.

"Thank Merlin you two are alright," Harry gasps. "Did it work?"

"I think it did," a low voice croaks. Hermione and I scramble to our knees around Fred as he slowly pries his eyes open. "Wait," he requests, slowly pushing himself to his feet. The rest of us follow suit. Slowly, he stretches his limbs out, grimacing at the various scars and bruises on his skin. I grow impatient with the longing to prove to myself he isn't an illusion, some cruel dream taunting me. I launch myself into his arms and he stumbles back, bumping into a nightstand and sending an unfortunate lamp toppling to its shattering demise.

"Fred! Oh Merlin, Fred, it worked, it worked!" I sob, burying my face into my twin's shoulder.

"George, George, I missed you so much," Fred says, tears running down his cheeks. "Thank you, thank you, George."

Ginny is hugging Harry tightly and Ron is wiping tears from his eyes. I feel the air being compressed out of my lungs by Fred's arms and we stay there, locked together, neither one willing to let the other go until I finally tell him, quietly, "Maybe you ought to thank Hermione."

He looks at me, smirking slightly, but I see the fear flicker briefly in his eyes, the fear of rejection, the certainty that his chance has long since passed.

"Go," I insist softly, patting him on the back and releasing him. He looks at Hermione, whose bright, brown eyes are shining with tears from watching our exchange. She looks at us, confused, like a deer in the headlights.

Fred closes the gap between them and picks her up, making them eye level, his arms holding tight around her waist and hers around his neck. There's a long moment of silent waiting, expecting. I hold my breath, wondering, praying my twin's courage will kick in, let him finally grab his opportunity. Ginny looks at me, amused, her hand in Harry's. Ron hides a grin and nudges my shoulder. I grin right back at him, the sort of Cheshire Cat grin I haven't managed since…since that day, the day my world started to crumble.

Fred inches his head forward, tentatively, waiting for some show of resistance or refusal on Hermione's part. Their breaths intermingle until, finally, at long bloody last, she closes her eyes and meets his lips, first softly, chastely and then passionately, lips clashing, conquering, claiming, devouring like consuming flames, like a kiss could heal every bit of damage and trauma from the war, like it could make up for all the lost time and disappointment and sacrifice. With a gasp for air, he breaks away and sets her gently on her feet.

"Anyone want to try to top that?" he grins, sweeping Ginny and Ron into a hug, rocking with them in his arms and hugging Harry too, before going back to me with an embrace.

"Should I wake everyone?" Ginny asks.

Fred releases me, nodding, and Ginny and Ron leave.

"Oh and George?" Fred starts.

"Yeah?"

"You owe me a new mirror, you destructive prat."

* * *

A/N: Anyone see the Olympic opening ceremony? Props to you, England! I thought it was pretty cool, despite the fail that was Voldemort. But hey, JK Rowling and Paul McCartney. Personally, I liked it, and I'm so excited for the gymnastics competitions. What events are you guys watching?


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: I wouldn't call this an epilogue…but…it's sort of like an epilogue. It's set a little while after the events of the previous chapter, and I don't know why I wrote it. It just seems like something the Weasleys would do.

* * *

**George's POV**

About a week after Fred's return, we had a little gift exchange in which each of us gave Fred something to put on our ceiling, despite the fact that neither of us actually live at the Burrow anymore. We ended up staying an extra month before moving back to the flat above our shop. The night before we left, Fred and I spent nearly six hours dismantling our Ceiling of Stuff and packing up the pieces. When we moved back into our flat, we arranged our new mementos at the register of the shop.

From Dad, a photograph of him and Mum holding us as infants. From Mum, something that depicts our relationship with her much more accurately: a written copy of the very first Howler she ever sent us. First year, something about not scaring Ron half to death by convincing him he'd have to wrestle trolls and that Mum and Dad would disown him if he got Slytherin. Bill gave him a picture of Percy from the time we put something in his shampoo that turned his hair hot pink for two weeks. From Charlie, a picture of himself shoving Bill rather violently off a swing. And not from when they were kids either. Full grown adults pushing each other off swings, just to prove that Fred and I don't have the monopoly on immature behaviour.

From Percy, a written slip granting us both full permission to do whatever we want with his hair. Not that we needed it, but at least he can't get mad at us anymore. From Ron, a picture of himself dangling precariously from a Quidditch ring. When Fred asked him how he managed to get up there, he blushed and stammered something unintelligible. We've been bugging him about it ever since. Ginny gave him a picture of herself, standing triumphantly with her shoelaces tied in perfect knots. Except her shoes are tied together. From Harry, a picture of the students of Hogwarts in celebration after our dramatic departure near the end of our seventh year, complete with our fireworks forming a huge "W." We don't know exactly what Luna gave Fred. It's a small silver figure of something that apparently no one but her has ever seen before.

Hermione gave him her journal entries from the days he was in a coma, written in neat black cursive. They're dramatic, emotional retellings of some of the darkest days of my life. I noticed one of them was so smudged with tears that it was actually difficult to make out the writing. It was about the day I smashed the bathroom mirror.

In the centre of our little register display, Fred keeps my gift to him. A large shard of glass from the shattered mirror, the tangible memory of our twin lives.

* * *

A/N: It's not the best chapter in the story, but I felt there should be some sort of closure. Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with this fic. An author's first multi-chap is almost never spectacular work, and I can get superfluous sometimes. Hopefully I'll start another multi-chap eventually, but if not, there will always be one-shots. I hope everyone enjoyed this.

An odd idea has been wandering around my head regarding this fic, so there may or may not be another chapter after this. I'm declaring Spirantexcitarent complete, but don't be surprised if a fifteenth chapter pops up.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: I really don't know why I decided to upload this. I mean, it doesn't have too much relevance. Basically, it's four very short one-shots, all from George's POV, from the stretch of time before Spirantexcitarent was cast and Fred was revived.

The second and third are dreams, the fourth is right before the mirror smashing incident. Heads up, the last one is very frantic-sounding. That was intentional. Let me know what you think of this.

* * *

"Uh…George?" a nervous, shaky voice calls from the other side of my bedroom door.

"Hermione, you share the room with me. You don't need permission to come in," I remind her flatly.

"Er, right. Sorry." She pushes the unlocked door open, pursing her lips, crossing her arms, and positively radiating anxiety.

I pat the space next to me on the floor by Fred's bed and she crosses the room to sit down. "I have some bad news."

Fear creeps its way up my throat and I glance to my motionless twin. "What is it?"

She averts her gaze and it occurs to me that she's probably afraid I'll lash out at her and take my anguish out on her somehow, like screaming at her or hurling her out a window or something. The fear is quickly replaced with shame. "I promise I won't hurt you if it upsets me."

She laughs slightly, still looking down, apparently fascinated by the floor. "Um…well…we're out of Dreamless Sleep Potion."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, George, but we just don't have anymore. You'll just have to try to sleep without it until we can get some more."

Numbly, I nod, immediately entertaining the option of never sleeping again. Like a mind reader, she dispels that thought. "Do your best, alright? I'm not going to let you keep yourself awake until we get more. It wouldn't be healthy at all."

"I-I guess I can try."

* * *

"You know, George, I was thinking about this coma business."

"Yeah?"

"And I thought, 'what if I had died?'"

"Fred-"

"And I realised it would've been okay. You know why?"

"Fred, I don't think I want to-"

"When we're both dead, if there's a Heaven, we'll go there."

"Fred, please."

"We're the Holy Spirit, don't you see?" he proclaims excitedly.

"What are you talking about?"

"Because you're holey, and I'm dead." After a long moment, he speaks again, his voice several octaves lower. "Please don't cry."

* * *

"George! George!" a shrill voice shouts. "George!"

I throw open the door to my bathroom, searching for the source of the noise.

"Here, George!"

"Fred?"

"Here!" he repeats.

I turn and see my reflection in the mirror. "George."

I reach a hand out to the cool glass, touching the tips of my fingers to it. The mirror ripples like the surface of a lake. The ripples spread across the reflection of my face, distorting it. Something unusual catches my eye- my reflection has a left ear. I reach up to the left side of my head and am met with the gap where my ear used to be.

"Get me out of here," my reflection chokes, still twisted by the ripples from my fingers.

"Fred?" I whisper, gaping at the mirror.

"Help me, George," he pleads.

I reach into the mirror, finding that I'm able to step through the thing. I find myself in an unfamiliar place, filled with cold, swirling fog.

"Fred?" I call. "Fred, where are you?!"

I thought I heard a response when I was jolted awake.

* * *

"It's called the Mirror of Erised," Harry had told me. He was young; maybe fourteen or so, when we talked about this.

"What's it do?" Fred had asked curiously, cocking his head to the side.

"It shows you your heart's desire."

I'm trembling now, shaking like I'm having a seizure, a light sheen of sweat dripping over my face. There's nothing, nothing at all I can do about this. There's nothing. Helpless.

I turn away from the bathroom door, peeling off my jumper to reveal…damn it! The shirt belonged to him originally…no…it was OURS, because we shared everything, even the jumpers Mum made with our individual first initials…ours, ours, ours. We were not the same person—are not the same person, yet we were still somehow interchangeable…twins, twins, twins. One soul dwelt in a single body…dwells! No, no, he's not gone, not yet, not ever, no.

So far away from me, and then—yes!—he's there again. A cruel trick of the light, a hallucination…a mirror, a mirror, always a mirror. I don't need a magic one to show me my heart's desire. Every mirror is the Mirror of Erised now.

I want him back, now; a reflection won't suffice. I see him every time I see myself, I am him, or is he me? We were so similar, how am I to know who I am? There can be no dark without light just as there can be no Fred without George…George without Fred…did we ever decide which ones we each were—are! Did we ever trade back from our switches as children? I have been Fred and George so many times, how am I to know which one I am?

"George…George…George…" I say out loud. The name is awful and foreign and oddly, horribly undeserved. What gives me the right to be conscious? To be safe? To be…no, I am not whole…I will never be, not until he wakes up…

"George? George? Fred?" I ask myself. Neither sounds correct. The man in the mirror repeats me, wondering himself which one he is; he doesn't know. Of course he doesn't know. He's not my other half, he's just me.

"George?" a voice calls from outside. My breath catches in my throat, tears sting my eyes…I feel like I'm hyperventilating…Hermione. Hermione. George. I am George, or at least everyone else believes me to be. I will take that name.

It wouldn't matter which name I took; I still don't have the other half.


End file.
